"Shall I call you back to confirm all that?"
"No. I'll be home about four."
She turned back to the notes for her magazine story. Beside them was the letter commissioning the story; the editor admired ". . . your special flair with men and women, particularly young people, who don't know how much they have to say until you draw them out."
The excitement of being praised. The thrill of being wanted. The sound of applause.
It's the next best thing to being loved.
The next hour was peaceful, with the newsroom activity a pleasant background to the quiet click of her computer keys, until the telephone rang again. "Elizabeth, I want to talk to you," Spencer said. "How about lunch today?"
"I'd love it." Elizabeth looked at the small calendar she always carried with her. A dress fitting at two and an interview at two-thirty. "Is twelve-thirty all right?"
"Fine. The Haven at twelve-thirty."
She typed rapidly for fifteen minutes and then once again the telephone rang. She tried to ignore it, then, exasperated, answered it.
"Don't blame the receptionist," Tony said. "I told her it was a matter of psychological desperation, with the future of American television hanging in the balance."
She laughed. "I'm sure she had no idea what that means, and neither do you. Tony, I came here to escape the telephone so I could get some work done."
"There is no escape from your adoring public. What time shall I send the plane for you tomorrow?"
"About six."
"That late? I hoped we'd have the afternoon."
"We'll have all day Friday. I can't leave until I finish the first draft of this article, and I want to write a column on the interview I have this afternoon, and Holly's leaving school early so we can go shopping. I'll be lucky to make it by six."
"Then let's eat in tomorrow night. On Friday you'll edit your tape and we'll meet with Bo and then we'll buy clothes and trinkets on Rodeo and elsewhere, but tomorrow night we'll stay home. Would you mind? My chef has mastered Cajun and Thai; you have your choice."
"Wonderful. Thank you, Tony; I'd much rather have privacy."
"Is there a reason for that?" he asked after a pause. "Polly's prattle, for instance?"
"It wasn't prattle; it was mostly the truth."
"Including the part about only your marriage standing between us?"
"No. That part wasn't. Tony, I have to get back to work. We can talk tomorrow."
"Oh, yes, work. Bo has the rest of January and all of February blocked out; he wants your ideas for March. He's joining us for breakfast Friday morning. And the publicity department wants background material on the Americans in Europe you're using in February, so bring your notes. Also we have an interview set up for you here, if you want to do it: some
joker who's written thirty books and hasn't had one of them published, so he's putting them in a time capsule because he says people appreciate dead authors more than live ones. Don't laugh; he's serious. Think about whether you want him. Oh, and I can't find your red velvet skirt; did you take it home last week?"
"Yes. Why were you looking for it?"
"I was going through your closet and I couldn't find it."
"Going through my closet?"
"I do it once a day, to make sure I didn't dream you. Goodbye, sweet Elizabeth; I'll see you tomorrow."
Elizabeth paused to contemplate the image of Tony Rourke going through the clothes she kept at his Malibu house. It isn't true, of course; he just likes the way it sounds. Why does he think he has to dramatize everything to keep me fond of him, and in his bed?
"I've been brooding," Spencer said at lunch at The Haven, just up the road from his wife's bookshop and his woodworking shop. "Your mother says things didn't work out the way she expected them to. It occurred to me that was the way you felt, too."
"A lot of people feel that way, don't you think?" Elizabeth asked mildly.
"You see," he said, going on with his thought, "I'm seventy-seven and I thought that was old enough to do whatever made me happiest. But I'm not old enough to make your mother unhappy; I probably never will be. I love her, you know."
Elizabeth smiled. "What started you thinking about this after all this time?"
"You mean after all this time hiding in my workshop. Saul and Heather's wedding. And seeing you and Matt, standing there, talking, your heads close together and your hearts a thousand miles apart. It made me melancholy. I don't like to think of you as not settled."
"Settled," Elizabeth repeated. She set her wine glass on the table and gazed at him. "I'm forty-two years old, with a son in college and a daughter graduating high school; I've paid off the mortgage on my home; I do work that I love; I'm admired and well-known; and I have an income in excess of a hundred thousand dollars a year, not including my husband's contribution—"
"What husband?" Spencer took her hand and contemplated her gold wedding band. "Do you have one or not?"
"I'm not sure." Elizabeth looked through the window beside their table. The front porch of the low adobe building had been swept clean, but snow covered the small yard and the steps of art galleries and craft shops
up and down Canyon Road. Everything was very still; the narrow street of low adobe buildings set in snowcovered yards seemed frozen in its serenity. The hard-edged skyscrapers of Houston, the lush gaudiness of Los Angeles, the ancient stones and grand monuments of Europe were far away. "But whether I have one or not, I'm securely settled on my own. You don't have to worry about me."
"I don't worry about money or work." Spencer picked moodily at his smoked trout. "I worry about somebody to keep you warm at night. That's what your mother complained about: she missed it."
"I miss it, too," Elizabeth said quietly.
"Then, damn it, tell me what you want me to do! A father ought to help his daughter. I've been slow getting to it, but here I am; what can I do? Talk to Matt? Drag him back here? Convince you to get a divorce? Maybe you just need someone to listen to your problems. I know, I know, I haven't been around. But I'm around now. Tell me about Tony Rourke. He called one day when we were at your house; you were off somewhere on an interview. Would he take better care of you than Matt?"
Elizabeth laughed. "I don't need taking care of. I like Tony; we work together and we have a good time. But I'm not planning to marry him. I don't want you to do anything for me but make Mother happy. Are you going to spend more time in the bookshop?"
"Some of the time. But for the rest, we're going to find a manager. Lydia ought to be able to get out once in a while too, you know."
"What a good idea," Elizabeth said, smiling. "And what will the two of you do after you've gotten out?"
"Travel, go to concerts and movies, work together in the bookshop some of the time, share my woodworking. Lydia says she wants to learn all about varnish. I told her with her light touch she'd be an expert in no time."
Is it possible that if we wait long enough, we'll get everything we want?
Elizabeth stretched her hand across the table. Spencer took it and for a few minutes they sat in silence. "I'm really all right," she said. "There isn't anything I want you to do but show me that the two of you are happy."
"That's not a problem anymore. We're taking care of it. We still have to take care of yours."
Elizabeth bit back a retort. "Let me handle my problems," she said gently. "Maybe if you knew some of the things I'm doing, you'd feel better. It's been so long since we really talked. ..." And through the rest of their lunch, while they ate their trout and finished a bottle of wine and shared a dessert, she amused him with stories about Europe and Los
Angeles, readers' comments on "Private Affairs," quotes from Peter's letters from school, and praise from Holly's voice teacher.
Spencer listened; he nodded, smiled, and chuckled. And then, as they walked out into the sharp clear air where powdery snowflakes caught the sun as they danced in the breeze, he took Elizabeth's arm. "Of course if you don't love Tony, that's that. But what
about this fellow Paul Mark-ham? Your mother said Heather said Saul said he's called you at the paper a number of times—why are you laughing?"
"Because I love you." Elizabeth kissed him. "Would you make a jewelry box for Holly's graduation? She's been wanting one made of rosewood. Oval, hinged, with red felt inside."
"And varnished by your Mother."
"Perfect. It would be from both of you. Thank you for lunch; I'll talk to you soon."
When she flew to Los Angeles the next day, Elizabeth tried to tell Tony about it— he's seventy-seven and she's seventy and they're finally getting themselves straightened out —but Tony didn't want to talk. As soon as the limousine brought her from the Santa Monica airport, he took her in his arms, his mouth and hands rousing her in an instant. "My God, I missed you," he said. "A whole week without you. ... I dreamed of you; I wanted you every minute. I can't stand this house when you're not here; it's so empty. I'm so empty. ..." Undressing her, his hands moved over her body, touching, stroking, exploring, with an intensity that made Elizabeth dizzy. "Once a week," he murmured. "My God, I go crazy wanting you." And he took her to his bed for the hour before dinner and again later, when the ocean was dark and the thunder of the waves seemed to lift the house above the sand, and beneath the urgency of his hands and fingertips and whispering mouth Tony gave her no time to think.
Late that night, when he slept, Elizabeth lay awake, wondering why she could not love him. They had everything she had ever wanted: they worked together and slept together; they were known as a couple in Los Angeles—and in Polly Perritt's column—and nationally as partners on "Anthony"; they had a good time together.
She moved her head restlessly on the pillow. She was grateful for his desire and his lovemaking; when they were apart she missed the words he scattered over her like soft, scented rose petals—telling her she was exquisite and sensual, as slender as a girl, as warm and strong as a woman, as sexy as a fantasy, as haunting as a dream. And what woman doesn't long for those words? Elizabeth asked herself. But there was too much drama in Tony and no room for simple emotions; too much striving to win and
no sharing of feelings. I can't love him, she thought, unless I could see behind the facade. Then, perhaps. . . .
The next morning, before Boyle joined them for breakfast, Tony again asked her to marry him. He caught her as she climbed out of his pool. "Enough is enough," he said. He paused to watch her graceful nude figure disappear within the long blue robe that matched his own. "How long can this go on? We want each other, we want the security, we're not happy when we're apart. There's no reason to wait."
She sat beside him on the chaise. "You remind me of Peter: he used to think that if he repeated something often enough I'd believe it. Tony, I'm already married and I don't want to marry anyone else."
"But I'm not anyone else. I am specific and unique."
She laughed. "So you are. But you're not about to be my husband. Now we'd better get dressed before Bo gets here. Oh, Tony, did you ask him about Isabel? I want to set that up—"
"No, no, and no. Don't ask me why, my sweet, but he wouldn't give an inch on this one. Forgive me; I truly tried. He gave it two and a half seconds and then nixed it. Said she's a public figure; he wants new people, not someone you've done in your column; he wants the unknown people you've proved yourself on; you should stick with what you do best, especially when it makes our ratings go up. And he's right, you know; the politicos really belong in my part of the show."
Reluctantly, Elizabeth nodded. "I suppose so."
"Do her daughter," he said carelessly. "Young Girl Loses Mommy to New Mexico Legislature."
Elizabeth smiled with him, but her eyes were thoughtful. "Sometimes you have very interesting ideas, Tony. Good lord, look at the time! Come and get dressed; we have so much to do and I want to be home by ten tonight."
"Tonight? You're not staying over?"
"I stayed last night. I told you, Tony, no more than one night a week."
"After three solid weeks in Europe, how can you be satisfied with that? If you'd allow me to set foot in your house in Santa Fe—"
"I won't. I told you that, too. I am not going to sleep with you with my daughter down the hall and my son calling to make sure we're all right." She put her hand on his hair, still damp from their swim. "Breakfast. And I promise I won't leave until after dinner."
"If I didn't let you use our plane, you couldn't even leave then."
She became impatient. "If you want me to use a regular airline, I will. It will mean I have less time here than I do now. If you want me to stop coming to your house, I'll stay in the cottage at the Beverly Hills, the way
I used to, and then we'd have even less time together. What would you like?"
"I'd like you to marry me and stop this goddam running back and forth to Santa Fe like a yo-yo, hiding from your offspring, who probably know what's going on anyway. I'm sorry; don't get angry; I won't say any more. Let's go to work like good little scouts and then have a peaceful dinner in some exotic spot and perhaps you'll let me kiss you chastely on the brow when it's time for you to take off in our network's winged chariot."
Even after he was most petulant he always recovered swiftly enough to make her smile. But that night Elizabeth was glad to get home, and the next day she had put him out of her mind, because she was driving to Nuevo.
The valley was soft and white, the gashes and scars of construction hidden under deep, wind-swept snow. Even the hulking earth-moving equipment and construction trailers looked like fat white toys scattered behind the town. Beneath the snow, everything was still, everything slumbered.
Elizabeth and Isabel sat with Cesar at a table near leaping flames in the fireplace, drinking coffee with cinnamon and eating freshly-made sopapi-llas with honey. Upstairs, Luz and Holly read issues of Elk and Paris Vogue that Holly had brought from Santa Fe, fervently wishing for something spectacular to happen to them. "It's as if everyone is waiting for construction to start again," Elizabeth said. "And destruction, too; they go together."
"Also jobs," mused Isabel. "And customers. And excitement for the young people."
"Tell Elizabeth about the legislature," Cesar urged. "They do not give a goddam hoot in hell for the people of this town."
"True," Isabel said. "But it would be extremely stupid to batter our heads against brick walls. One wall, maybe. Forty walls, no."
"What does that mean?" Elizabeth asked.
"It's too late to change anything. They notice me, now that I'm elected, but they don't listen, they just want to straighten me out about how there's no way the committee will start this debate again. They're too busy spending this year's millions to think about last year's, and the work's already gone on for a whole summer. Nuevo is like yesterday's newspaper, and there's nothing I can do about it."
Elizabeth put down her coffee. "Isabel, Matt told me the townspeople were given a list of places to move, and promised extra money and help in resettling."
"Promised—!" growled Cesar.
"We were promised a kick in the rear if we didn't get out when we were told to," said Isabel. "What made him think that?"
"Some report. I've asked for a copy of it. I should have had it by now."
"There is no report!"
Elizabeth was silent, her eyes troubled.
The door opened and a gust of cold air bent the flames in the fireplace. "If I'm not intruding—?" Maya said.
"Of course not," Isabel said. "Elizabeth will pour you coffee; give me your coat, your boots, your gloves, your hat—" She looked at Maya closely. "Something wonderful has happened: your eyes are shining like pebbles in the bottom of a stream. Come have coffee and tell us the news."
"I had a letter today," Maya said. She smiled at Elizabeth, trying to be demure, but her eyes were dancing. "The words are very beautiful. And I couldn't wait for you to come to my house for lunch. I hope you don't mind, but I thought I would explode if I couldn't talk about it—"
"So you will do what?" de
manded Isabel. Cesar had dozed off, and she lowered her voice; she was pretending to be stern, but a smile broke through her words. "Move to California? Study politics at Stanford? Work on someone else's campaign? I'm losing my assistant—is that what you're saying?"
Her color high, Maya shook her head. "I don't know. I wanted to ask you," she said to Elizabeth. "Because you know Peter. He gets very enthusiastic, and says wonderful things, but maybe besides all that feeling, there should be a little more thinking. When he studies and writes his articles he plans and thinks and organizes, but with personal things, he . . . leaps. Do you know what I mean? The way he told me last fall that he wanted to be alone at the university, and I was hurt, but I thought, well, he believes it and it's important to him. Now he says he was wrong; he can do even better with me there, because he'll be happier. And it's much nicer to be loved than hurt, and I've prayed for a letter like this, but maybe . . . maybe I should say let's wait until spring when he knows better if he really wants me all tangled up in his life ... or maybe even summer, when he's home for a while. I mean, is it good for a woman to change her whole life because a man leaps? What if later he leaps in a new direction? I would hate to be worrying about that if I've turned my life upside down for him. But then I wonder, should I say yes because this time it may be smart to leap and if I don't, he may never want to again and then I would be miserable for the rest of my life."
It was the longest speech she had ever made and she stopped abruptly, out of breath. Elizabeth met Isabel's eyes, but Isabel gave a tiny shake of
the head; she wouldn't touch it; let Peter's mother handle the question of whether Peter and Maya should live together now, or later, or at all.
Elizabeth started to reply; then she looked closely at Maya. "But that isn't all, is it? Something else is bothering you."
"Oh, you are very smart." Maya spread her hands. "I'm ashamed to say this, but ... I love Peter and I want to live with him, but I also loved working on Isabel's campaign and I love working in her office in the statehouse and I love talking about fighting for our town, and I don't want to miss whatever happens. ..." Her voice trailed away. "That's not nice, is it? To think of other loves instead of just Peter."
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