Jennifer shook her head playfully. “Padraig, you could score in a convent.”
“I have,” he answered, “but this has nothing to do with scoring.” He leaned across the console, took her face between his palms, and kissed her gently, first on the tip of her nose and then on the edge of her lips. He stared at her for seconds that passed like hours and then smiled. Not his signature flash of white, but a soft smile that was almost sad. “Take me home,” he said, “before I lose my devilish image.”
FIVE
JENNIFER WAS back at the hotel in time to tell Catherine and Peter about her tour of the Maritime Alps with Padraig O’Connell.
“A Ferrari Three Eighty.” Peter whistled. “You’re in the big leagues of motoring.”
“When’s your next date with the great Irish bard?” Catherine asked.
“Nothing definite. Not till ‘our paths cross again,’ as he put it.”
“Which will probably be this afternoon.”
Jennifer smiled. “I hope so. He’s fun.”
“That’s what all the ladies say,” Peter told her.
“Oh, I know I’m just this week’s game,” Jennifer admitted. “But I’d like to get a full week.”
Catherine smiled. “Well, I’ll give the devil his due. I’ve never seen you happier, and it looks as if Padraig O’Connell gets most of the credit.”
In the morning, Jennifer went back to the basic black dress that Padraig had said showed off her best asset. She was sure he’d find a reason to stop by the hall, and she had already decided to leave with him when he did. The festival was winding down, and the traffic through the displays was light. Let someone else answer the questions while she enjoyed whatever Padraig had planned for the day.
She stopped short as she exited the hotel’s glass doors. Parked at the curb directly in front of her was a bright red Ferrari convertible in showroom condition. Either Padraig had had yesterday’s car washed and detailed, or he was starting the day with a fresh model. She looked around anxiously to see where he was lurking.
“Miss Pegan?” The English was accented, carefully pronounced by a middle-aged man in a dark suit. She nodded.
“I’m Giovanni, from Ferrari. The dealership here in Cannes.”
“Hi!” She looked over his shoulder, still searching for O’Connell. Then she noticed the key ring that Giovanni was holding in front of her face.
“Mr. O’Connell says that you should take more chances.” He dropped the keys into her hand and took an envelope from his jacket. “This is the title and the European Union registration. I offered to take you for a demonstration, but Mr. O’Connell said you already drive better than I do.”
She stood openmouthed, bewildered.
“I’ll move it for you if you like. This is a no parking zone, and in Cannes even Ferraris get tickets.”
“Where is Mr. O’Connell?”
Giovanni shrugged. “I have no idea. He was waiting outside when we opened, but he left after we finished the paperwork.”
She scanned once more, hoping that Padraig would step out from behind a bush or from around a corner, but there was still no sign of him. She gave the keys and title back to the auto dealer. “Yes, please, park it for me. And leave the keys at the desk.” She walked quickly up the boulevard to O’Connell’s hotel.
“He checked out this morning,” the desk clerk said, painfully sorry to be giving her disappointing news.
“He can’t,” Jennifer answered. “He has appearances, commitments …”
The clerk held up his hands in despair. “Monsieur O’Connell is …” Then he shrugged. Jennifer could fill in delightfully irresponsible, which seemed to be the clerk’s meaning. Or perhaps there had been other women asking for him and he was trying to let her down easily.
She managed a smile, but she was amazed by how disappointed she was when she turned away.
Then she saw him, crossing the lobby from the restaurant. He went to the bell captain’s stand, where he was joined by two bellmen, each carrying two suitcases. Jennifer moved quickly and got to the revolving doors ahead of his entourage. O’Connell showed shock for only an instant and went immediately into his usual character role.
“Jennifer, dear, what a pleasant surprise.” The bellmen piled up behind him.
“I wanted to thank you for the car,” she said, showing a bit of the anger she was feeling. She pointed to his luggage. “I didn’t know you’d be so anxious to avoid seeing me.”
“No thanks are required,” he said. “The car was made for you.”
“Still, no one has ever given me a Ferrari. I think gratitude is in order.”
He flashed the stage smile. “I’ve given away several, Jennifer, although there’s no one I can remember more deserving than you.”
“Still, at the price of these things, you can’t have given away many. So I should be grateful for making your short list.”
Padraig waved the bellboys away. He took Jennifer’s arm and steered her to one of the lobby’s plush furniture arrangements, sitting her in one chair while he took the next one. “Don’t be angry with me, darlin’. This was just the kind of ending I was trying to avoid.”
“Is that what it is? An ending?”
“There’s always an ending, and I wanted this one to be happy.”
“A simple goodbye would have been nice.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t have had the courage for something as easy as that.”
“Courage?”
He drew a deep breath, sighed, and reached across the space between the chairs to touch her hand. “Jennifer, if I stay around you, I’ll do something very foolish that will destroy the rascal’s image I count on for my livelihood.”
“Something like …”
“Like fall in love.”
She felt her jaw drop the slightest bit.
“You see, darlin’, in this crazy business of narcissistic head cases, I’ve never come across anyone quite as fresh and unassuming as you. And there’s this streak of honesty in my bones, probably the curse of an Irish childhood, that says I must have you. But in the picture industry, the swashbuckling rogue is obligated to fly like a bee from flower to flower. He can never be still long enough to lose his heart to anyone. If it was learned that I had fallen in love, the young ladies in my fan club would throw themselves into a mass grave.”
“Will you please shut up,” Jennifer ordered.
He did, showing surprise that he had stopped talking.
“In that whole speech, which I’ll bet comes from one of your movies, you said just one thing that made sense.”
“It didn’t come from a movie. I made it up last night. And then, when I heard how dreadful it sounded, I decided to send the Ferrari instead.”
“You said you love me.”
He stared at her. “Hopelessly,” he admitted. “And you understand why I can’t do that.”
“Take a chance,” Jennifer reminded him.
“I couldn’t promise you how it would come out,” he said.
“You never know how things are going to come out.”
“Most of my relationships have ended in failure.”
“So have mine.”
He pursed his lips, then showed the gentle smile. “Shall we have a fling at it?”
“Let’s. But there’s one thing you should know.”
He looked puzzled.
“I’m not going to give the Ferrari back.”
“Oh dear, then I suppose I’ll have to pay for it.”
“Every penny!”
O’Connell stood and offered his hand. “Can I drive it every once in a while?”
“Maybe on Sundays.”
During the last few days of the festival, they were everywhere together, formally attired at the openings, in T-shirts at the discos, in bathing suits at the beach, where Padraig built her an enormous sand castle. The gossip columnists sensed the story of Padraig O’Connell’s latest conquest and warned that one of society’s poor little rich girls was about to be fleec
ed. Paparazzi followed them everywhere, producing yards of film of them holding hands, dancing close together, or climbing out of the sports car.
“She’s sleeping with him,” Catherine told Peter after she found Jennifer’s bed unused. “She didn’t come home last night.”
“What an unusual thing for lovers to be doing,” he said.
“Peter, this a new adventure for Jennifer.”
“She’s a consenting adult,” he said. “You make her sound like an adolescent.”
“The guy she’s consenting with is a master. She may be overmatched.”
“She is. But Jennifer is smart enough to know it. She can take care of herself. Besides, the festival is closing down. O’Connell will be looking for new fish in a new pond.”
Neither of them was prepared for Jennifer’s news, delivered from behind a napkin at the closing banquet. She wasn’t coming straight back to New York. There were roads in the west of Ireland that Padraig thought she would love. They were shipping the Ferrari on ahead and planning to spend a week in his native country.
Catherine and Peter returned to New York, where they totaled up their victories. The festival had been a smash success for Pegasus, and Peter was more than generous in giving Catherine full credit. They had gathered over a dozen contracts, each paying up to reserve capacity on the satellite network. There were two others that began to use the service immediately. Pegasus III was generating income, less than a month after the launch.
Jennifer was calling in every day, keeping on top of her obligations. Her only personal comments were that the West Ireland roads were indeed glorious, and that she and Padraig were having a great time.
“You said he’d be fishing in a new pond,” Catherine reminded Peter.
He admitted his mistake. “This seems to be O’Connell’s longest commitment to anyone since he dumped his first wife.”
“But you’re not worried.”
Peter took off his glasses and wiped them carefully. “No, I don’t think so. I guess I’m still delighted that Jennifer is living a little.”
They left the car in a garage at O’Connell’s ancestral home. “How long has the place been in the family?” Jennifer had asked.
“Almost a year now,” he had answered with his impish grin. He had kissed her goodbye at the airport, to the delight of the photographers who had been trying to keep up with them. Then he had flown to Hollywood while Jennifer had boarded the New York flight. She called from Kennedy Airport to invite Catherine and Peter to dinner. “I’ve made reservations at Ciro’s,” she said. “The stuff in my refrigerator is probably growing hair.”
At dinner, Jennifer dropped the bombshell. She and Padraig were going to be married.
Peter’s expression never changed, almost as if it were set in cement. Catherine mumbled a “Dear God” and lowered her face against the back of her hand.
“I knew you’d be overjoyed,” Jennifer teased.
“Married?” Peter managed. Then he added, “Is that really necessary?”
“Only to make an honest woman out of me, for whatever that’s worth.”
“You’ve only known him for … what? One festival and a couple of weeks in Ireland,” Catherine speculated. But almost immediately she got control of herself. “Oh, hell, what am I saying. I should be thrilled for you. You must be so happy. But are you sure? Absolutely sure?”
Jennifer shrugged. “Who’s ever sure? I know I’m taking a chance. But so far all the chances I’ve taken with Padraig have worked out just fine.”
Peter forced down his dinner in near silence. Catherine moved a fish fillet around her plate with a fork and ignored the vegetables. Only Jennifer ate heartily.
It was a week later when Peter summoned the two sisters to his office, opened a bottle of white burgundy, and passed a small file folder to each of them. “A distasteful subject,” he announced, “but one that has to be considered.” They both looked down at the first page: “Prenuptial Agreement Between Jennifer Ann Pegan and Padraig Aloysius O’Connell.”
“Jesus,” Jennifer said, and slammed the folder shut. Catherine looked sternly at Peter.
“This, or some version of it, is absolutely essential,” he went on. “You’re bringing forty-five percent of this company into your marriage, as well as millions in personal assets. Your money is your business, but it’s my responsibility to protect the company. Depending on where you get married, Padraig O’Connell could have the second largest stake in Pegasus the moment you say ’I do.’ That’s because he could own one half of everything you own.” He was unyielding, staring across the table at Jennifer, who was just as defiantly staring back.
Catherine felt a need to mediate. “I agree, Peter. Some sort of protection is certainly needed. But does it have to be this? Now?”
“It does have to be this. Prenuptials have the full weight of law. And it has to be now. I doubt Mr. O’Connell will be anxious to sign after the wedding.”
Jennifer jumped to her feet. “Is that what you think Padraig is interested in? The company? My money? Open your eyes, Peter. He has his own fortune.”
Peter opened his own folder. “A little more than two hundred thousand dollars. And half again that amount in lines of credit. But he also has debts. He’s solvent, but he doesn’t have a fortune.”
“Where did you get that?” Jennifer snarled.
“It’s public information. Our bankers gathered it for us.”
“Not for ‘us.’ For you. I’ll have no part in snooping into Padraig’s affairs.”
Catherine put a hand over Jennifer’s, siding with her. “I don’t think that was necessary,” she told Peter.
“It’s a factor in framing the agreement,” he answered calmly. “Half of everything he has could well become Jennifer’s.”
“Well, your figures are all screwed up,” Jennifer snapped. “Padraig got ten million dollars for his last movie.”
Again Peter consulted the notes. “Actually, it was eight million. He owed a bit to his agent. And seven million of that turned around in three weeks to cover debts he’d run up.”
Now Catherine seemed concerned. “But he has more films in the works.”
“Very true, but thus far there’s no financial backing.”
“He’s going to start a production company.”
“That has no financial backing, either.”
“Jesus, he bought me a Ferrari. On a whim!”
Peter turned another page. “He made a down payment and took out a chattel mortgage. That’s part of the debt I mentioned. For the time being, the bank owns your Ferrari.”
Jennifer glared at him. “You bastard,” she whispered. She turned on her heel and stormed out of the room, leaving Peter and Catherine staring at each other.
“Well, that was a hell of a wedding gift,” Catherine finally said.
Peter nodded. “I handled it poorly. I just assumed she would have realized that a prenup was necessary.”
“‘Poorly’ is an understatement. But you’re right, of course. I have no interest in having Padraig O’Connell as a partner.”
“Will you tell her that?”
“Of course,” Catherine answered.
“And maybe you could also apologize for me,” Peter said.
“No! That’s something you ought to do for yourself.” She got up to leave but then turned back to the table. “Do you think he’ll sign?”
Peter gathered his papers. “If he loves her, he will.”
“Do you think he does?”
“We’ll certainly find out.”
That night Catherine phoned her sister but was intercepted by the answering machine. “Pick up, Jennifer,” she said. “I’m on your side.” But the machine beeped and waited to record her message. She tried two more calls, then grabbed her purse, checked for cash, and phoned her doorman to get a cab. Minutes later, she was standing in front of a Tribeca building where her sister owned the top floor loft.
She went up in the freight elevator that had been retai
ned for its earthy chic, and fitted the key that Jennifer had given her into the lock.
“Jennifer,” she called into the vast, high-ceilinged space. There was no answer. She called again, got no response, and closed the door behind her. It took only a few seconds to discover that her sister wasn’t home, and then a few more to realize that Jennifer had taken a few essentials from her closet and her medicine cabinet before leaving. Scattered luggage confirmed her worst fears. Jennifer had left on an unannounced trip. Catherine guessed she had gone to California to be with Padraig.
She turned on the answering machine. One message was from O’Connell, with a witty remark about how much he missed her assets. Then there were two hang-ups, probably her own calls that had gone unanswered. She was about to leave when she noticed a photograph in a cheap paper frame open on Jennifer’s desk. It showed her sister in a simple summer dress, holding a single flower in her hand. Padraig was next to her, a dark blazer over an open collar, with a floppy white flower in his lapel. Behind them, barely in focus, was a clergyman in a white surplice. She stared and was able to make out the stone facade of a church of Ireland in the background. She dropped the photo as if it had a lighted fuse, realizing what it was telling her. Jennifer and Padraig had gotten married in Ireland.
“We can still get an agreement,” Catherine told Peter the next day. “Can’t they agree on the ownership of their property? A memo of understanding on who gets what if they should ever decide to end the marriage.”
“We can try,” Peter answered. “But I wouldn’t bet on his signing. Why should he?”
“Your worst fears,” Catherine said idly.
“No,” Peter said after a pause. “My worst fear was that they’d get married in a common-property state. In Ireland there’s no hard division. If they divorce, a court would get to decide who keeps what. But that could be a legal nightmare. I’d love to have it all down in writing.”
“So, it could be worse,” Catherine mused.
“If Jennifer dies,” Peter said. “Then, unless she has a will to the contrary, Padraig would own as much of the company as you do.”
Good Sister, The Page 6
