by Carol Devine
He respected her, sure. So many fawned over him, trying to use him to get what they wanted. She didn’t. He thought as much when he overheard her pronounce the name of an excellent but obscure wine with a perfect French accent. He knew it for certain when he saw how she stood out from the ordinary, from the crowd. She and her big brother Bram were the only members of the Masterson clan who didn’t look bowled over by the presence of his family in all their reflected Tarkenton glory.
Jack recalled how close he’d come to skipping the rehearsal dinner. Already bored by the prospect of wasting an entire weekend on his sister’s wedding, he arrived late, planning to leave as soon as the meal was served.
But his plans went out the window the moment he got together with Meg. She made the event memorable all by herself, simply by virtue of her presence. Alive with style, she glowed, and he told himself her fresh-faced look of the ingenue was a trick of the light.
The last morning they spent together, she wrote down her telephone number so he wouldn’t forget. He hadn’t, either. Even though he threw the paper away the moment she left, he could not erase the numbers from his mind.
So they shared the same city. With seven million other souls, odds were she’d never find him. He guarded his private domain like nowhere else. Servants and assistants insulated him from all corners, including his family. His secretary was the only one who knew how to reach him at a moment’s notice.
Yet he walked around a phone he refused to pick up, even when it rang. After a week of driving himself crazy, he rerecorded the answering machine tape to say he was out of the country. Before leaving town, however, there were arrangements to be made. To ensure the recovery of his sanity, Jack visited the office of a certain private detective and paid a lot of money for the man to take a lot of pictures. Jack also left his forwarding address.
He wanted photos of Meg with other men. He said he would double the P.I.’s fee for a shot of her in bed with another man. That was one photo Jack knew he’d keep, even if he had to carry the damn picture in his wallet for the rest of his days. Never again would he make such a fool of himself.
A few days later, the P.I. sent him a list of all the men Meg supposedly had come in contact with since she had first moved to New York. Most Meg worked with. The rest owned the shops she frequented—the corner grocery, a French-style bakery and the discounters on Fifty-second Street.
Jack was living it up in Rio de Janeiro then, spending a lot of money to keep busy all the time. Or trying to.
The photos found him a week later, at the casinos of Monaco. There were candid shots of each of the men, but the P.I. reported Meg did not have a personal interest in any of them.
Jack burned the lot while toasting his great good sense in leaving New York City when he did.
He was cruising the Mediterranean when he got the news that Meg had quit her job as assistant curator of textiles at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Even though she now earned a much higher salary, providing the latest-and-greatest fabrics to New York fashion designers, the fact that she had quit what she termed her dream job nagged at him.
He diverted himself with a quick trip to the Pyrenees, then decided to take on a real challenge and flew to the Himalayas for a trek up Everest. But the weeks of diversion exacted their toll, especially where Meg Masterson was concerned.
Check that. Meg Masterson Betz.
The news of her marriage reached him in Hong Kong. The first photo of the happy couple came by fax. Though the picture was blurred, there was no mistaking her outline, arm and arm with a pudgy man.
When the courier arrived with a series of eight-by-ten glossies, Jack couldn’t believe his eyes. Allen Betz didn’t seem Meg’s type at all. Balding, overweight and bespectacled, her chosen one was a tax accountant who had just flunked his second CPA exam. According to the private investigator, he had long been a friend of the Masterson family, although Meg, because of her time at the Sorbonne, hadn’t seen him in years.
The significance of the link struck Jack immediately. Ever since he had reached voting age, he’d deliberately pushed his family’s well-meaning friends away. They knew how to lay on the guilt, constantly reminding him of the principles his father had lived by and died for, encouraging him to fight the good fight, to run for office and make a difference in the world. They failed to understand that there was only one John B. Tarkenton. And he had died a long time ago.
The investigator didn’t ask why he was suddenly told to stop taking pictures. Jack did give him one last assignment, however, and it cost the most.
Paternity tests weren’t that expensive. Keeping them secret was. The biggest chunk of change went to the hospital nurse who drew a tiny bit of the baby’s blood when Meg delivered a seven pound, two ounce girl. Then a lab technician in another hospital was paid to type and test the blood against an unlabeled sample.
No one except the P.I. knew whose sample it was. And Jack paid an obscene amount to ensure that the nurse “forgot” the name of the baby she’d drawn blood from.
The convoluted nature of the scheme confused even him. At least, Jack felt confused when he saw the results. Or maybe it was simply the shock of discovering that he was a father.
He traveled from Hong Kong to Singapore to Bangkok, intent on forgetting in the pleasure capitals of the world. But instead of losing himself in his quest for the ultimate high, he found himself noticing faces. Especially those of the children. Children who lived, literally, on the streets.
Out of guilt he reached for his wallet. He gave out small bills, American, to small hands. The money would do some good that way. Dollars greased the black market. That’s where the most nutritious food was.
Then Jack saw what the kids spent those dollars on. Rather than support the local neighborhood drug lords, he bought the damned food from the black marketeers and doled it out himself. What started with a handful of kids swelled to hundreds in the space of one week.
He needed help. He didn’t want to be seen this way, acting like he cared. If he cared, he would have stayed in New York.
Jack went to the religious charities that already had a presence in Thailand. He would provide the money if they would provide the work, the food, the care.
He got past the red tape of the local and national government with judicial use of the Tarkenton name. He had one condition, however. If he was ever identified as the benefactor, the funds would immediately dry up.
It took months to make the first shelter happen. The grand opening occurred a year to the day Katie was born.
Jack watched the ribbon-cutting from a dingy room in a dingy hotel across the street from the shelter. Even in the backwaters of Bangkok, he didn’t want to risk being seen anywhere near such a venture.
A newborn baby happened to be abandoned that day, a tiny, half-starved girl. He witnessed people digging in excited consternation through a mound of garbage off the street and knew something was up. But when he saw the nun run outside and gather what was found to her chest, horror overwhelmed him. The baby didn’t even have swaddling clothes.
He made one phone call. The next day her picture was in the newspaper alongside an article about the opening of the clinic and orphanage. Among the foreign characters of the Thai alphabet, Jack made out the initials of her name in the caption underneath.
K. T. Oolong was five years old now. Along with her many sisters and brothers, she had a drawerful of clothes and was enrolled in a school that the religious order ran in the newly renovated building next door to the shelter.
Of all the hundreds of children, K.T. was the only one he kept tabs on. In his wallet, he carried her picture. He made it a regular practice to study it as a tangible reminder of how close he’d come to losing what little conscience he had left.
A little girl’s dark eyes smiled under her fringe of straight black hair. Never met, she was a dream to him, like getting to know his own daughter had once been a dream. Now he held on to the photo for no other reason than to commemorate his father. Jo
hn B. Tarkenton once said his life’s ambition was to make the world safe for the children.
That was why, despite his exercise training and sharp reflexes, he was lost in remembrance. Jerked to his feet, the punch to his gut caught Jack totally unawares.
“I figured I had a free shot for defiling my sister, you bastard. Now it’s your turn.” Bram Masterson grabbed him by the front of his shirt, holding him up.
Amanda quickly stepped between them. “Bram, this is not going to happen. You and Jack are not going to fight.”
Bram showed disgust. “Amanda, he might be your brother but he’s scum of the earth to me. This has been coming for a long time. We all know it. Take Meg and Mom and your mother and wait in the other room.”
“I will do no such thing. Look at what you’re doing to Meg. And dare I mention, Katie? She’s got the biggest stake in this. All of us here are her family, the Tarkentons and the Mastersons both. We’re all she’s got.”
Jack knew, as usual, his big sister was right on the mark. But some devil inside kept pushing him. “Come on, Masterson,” he taunted Bram. “Take your shot.”
It took the four women to keep them apart. Seeing the distress on Meg’s face, Jack finally recognized the force that was forever pushing him, egging him on, always spoiling for a fight. “It wasn’t defilement,” he said to Bram and dropped his fists. “I loved her. I always did.”
Seeing the stunned look on Meg’s face, Jack felt the stranglehold of emotion, the fear of saying what could not be taken back. Maybe he shouldn’t have admitted it. Certainly he didn’t want to hurt her anymore.
The responsibility he suddenly felt tore at him. What if he failed miserably? Was it possible that John B. Tarkenton’s son truly had the ability to step in the shoes of his father and claim the same dreams for himself?
Eleven
“Obviously, I think it is necessary.”
“Why? Jack demanded, careful to keep his voice down. He and Meg were not alone. Katie was playing on her swing and the usual cadre of media types were hanging around the gates of the estate, telephoto lenses in their greasy little hands. He gestured towards them. ”Why would you want to, go anywhere near those goons? What could you possibly hope to get out of it?”
“I hate this feeling of being like a specimen under a microscope. It’s time to identify the specimen. It’s time to expose it to the air.”
“You’re not going to like how it smells.”
“How do you know?”
“I know.”
“Funny how I always felt I should believe you, even when I told myself I shouldn’t.”
“Well I’m glad part of you has some sense. What do I have to do to bring the rest around—charge the media for this peep show?”
She kissed him. He didn’t allow it to go on for long. “You see the size of those photo lenses? Tonight those guys will be tendering million dollar offers.”
“I don’t care. I made promises to you, Jack. I want to honor them.”
“You have honored your promises, Meg. Every last one. I haven’t. It’s that simple.”
“You want to see simple? Watch this.”
She walked toward the circus of media hanging around the gate. Katie ran after her, and that’s when he ran, too, scooping Katie into his arms. For the first time in his adult life, Jack did not know what to do.
He had to protect Katie. He had to shut Meg up. But he couldn’t stop her. One armed and determined individual could pretty much take anybody out. His father’s assassination proved that.
Watching Meg step into the glaring light of publicity was like watching the last film that existed of his father, heading like a lamb to slaughter.
He glanced at Katie. He’d do anything to spare her the pain of seeing herself framed forever on TV for the entire world to see, stoic and silent in grief. Doggedly, he followed Meg, calculating what to do and say. “Hello,” he began when he reached her side, addressing them all.
The reporters and cameramen helloed back, made friendly by this unprecedented and unsolicited approach.
Meg gave him a smile, but it was a nervous one. He’d put the fear of God in her, that was plain. “My wife tells me that it’s time to introduce our daughter to you. Katie, can you say hello to these people?”
Katie emphatically shook her head. A couple of the more human among the paparazzi laughed. Jack targeted them with his smile. “She’s a little shy. She has only just turned five.”
“Is she really your biological daughter?”
He shared a long and meaningful look with Meg. “She is.”
It felt oddly like a movie to him, the parts scripted and assigned. At one point Katie ran back to the swing to play. He took Meg’s hand. As always, her grace under fire was impressive.
Where did she find her deep well of faith? It carried her as it carried him. Yet she was so damned good at making herself look human, in spite of her inimitable style. Maybe that was why he found himself making jokes about how human he was, too.
“How long did the affair last?” questioned one.
“It’s not over yet,” he answered. “Next question.”
That got a laugh.
“Why didn’t you get married back then?”
“I figured if she was going to marry one of the more infamous bachelors in the western hemisphere, I needed to clean up my act. Otherwise, she might have sued me for defamation of character.”
“Do you love him?” Meg was asked.
Her smile was radiant. “Yes.”
“Jack, do you love her?”
He whispered in Meg’s ear. They kissed, making it last by making it sweet. Shutters flashed. “That’s not an answer,” someone complained.
“Yes, I love her,” he replied.
For some obscure reason, that famous picture of Charles and Diana resplendent in their wedding clothes, kissing on the balcony of Buckingham Palace entered his mind.
Was that what he was in for? This one shining moment of shared and studied romance, shown to the masses, then left to wither into a slow and very public demise?
In the slenderness of the fingers that were interlocked with his, he felt her conviction. Did he dare let it in? Did he dare allow himself to feel his own?
Katie called to say she was hungry. Meg announced it was time for them to go in. He regretted leaving the cameras. He’d never been less sure of what the media would make of such an impromptu performance.
That’s when he realized his problem. It wasn’t a performance.
He made some feeble excuse to Meg and left her and Katie at the door of the house. He couldn’t bring himself to go inside. He didn’t want to disappoint them. He didn’t want to disappoint himself. What was happening to him? Before, he had always been able to read the tabloids and find out.
He headed for east wing and noticed the strangest things. Like the grain of the grass, stamped in crisscrosses by the groundskeeper who mowed it. And the breeze that was high enough to rustle only the tops of the tallest trees.
Garbage littered the street where the media had camped. The news satellite truck was gone. Some diehards remained. They were the worst ones, the ones he recognized from his long practice in the art of avoidance.
There was one in particular whom Jack had actually sued for following him incessantly. Jack didn’t recall the man’s name. The suit had been won a couple of years ago. The man obeyed the judge’s edict most of the time, although on days like today, it was understood that all bets were off.
Maybe that’s why Jack retrieved a garbage bag from housekeeping and went out to clean up the street himself. If nothing else, he admired the man’s tenacity.
The man got his wish, an exclusive scoop, though it was only in pictures. Jack didn’t speak other than to greet the security guard.
It took only a few minutes to clean up the mess. He stuffed the bag half-full, went back through the gate and left the trash with the guard with orders to keep the street clean if such a mess was made again. He then waved his
thanks and sent a glance toward the photographer beyond the gate.
Rick. The man’s name was Rick Madsen.
The next day, when Jack saw the series of photos splashed across the front page of the newspaper, he had to admit he looked a little stiff. Katie was smiling. Meg had the most interesting expression of all. Pride radiated from her. The kind of pride a man had a duty to live up to. She deserved the very best. So did Katie. More importantly, they deserved his very best, too.
Twelve
Jack insisted that she wear her wedding gown for the silent auction they were to attend that night. Meg didn’t understand why he even wanted her to go. Despite his saying he loved her quite publicly, he had yet to say it in private. And they hadn’t slept together since Jack moved out of her bedroom weeks ago.
“Didn’t you tell me you bought that particular gown because it could be worn again?” he asked, checking his black tie in her mirror. “It isn’t strictly a wedding gown, you said.”
Meg tied the belt of her robe tighter. “I can’t believe you remember the conversation.”
“The dress was memorable. Especially with you in it.”
Though minor compared to his usual innuendos, the suggestiveness of the comment made Meg feel weary. Was that all he cared about? What she looked like? “Fine,” she said. “I’ll wear it.”
She made sure she dressed out of sight, though. The sheerness of the gown demanded she wear undergarments that were slight in and of themselves. Seeing them outlining her curves in the mirror made her nervous. Maybe she should go to him right now and get the sex thing over with. Once they did the dreaded deed, she wouldn’t have to worry about when it would happen again or how.
But she was uncertain about whether she truly was ready to commit herself, body and soul. Without the common link of their child, what bound them together?
She used to think their sexual chemistry was the mortar that cemented the foundation of their marriage, but chemistry wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. It left her confused, her heart hollow. Like now. Her husband was what—ten feet away? She couldn’t even bring herself to go to him for the comfort of physical release.
