“Jackie, money isn’t the point,” Cordelia had said (which, with Cordelia’s angry Last Stand of the South inflection, was more like, Jaaa-ckie, mun-nee izent tha po-went”).
“What is your point, Cordelia?”
“I know our brother Beau is in a most grievous financial situation and it has been ascertained that you are intervening for him and may be using our magazines to do it.”
“Why, Cordie Lou,” Jackson had said, “what kind of story are you telling?” (When Cordelia was angry with him, Jackson tended to revert to the same strategy of denial that worked when he was a boy.)
“You listen to me, Jackson Andrew Darenbrook.”
(Uh-oh, Jackson had thought, here it comes.)
“You and I both know that you are no stranger to the playing of the shell game and that I have looked the other way on certain projects of which Little El, Norbert and Noreen would not approve, but which I knew were necessary to maintain the well-being of the company. But you listen to me, little brother—”
(When Cordelia got on her high horse like this, Jackson often imagined her sitting on their old gray mare, Bunky-Belle, with a mobile phone in one hand and the torch from the Statue of Liberty in the other.)
(Sigh. What he would give for a ride in the field with old Bunky-belle today. Bunky-Belle, darlin; how are ya up there in horse heaven, anyway?)
I will not stand for you jeopardizing any part of Darenbrook Communications to finance Beau’s gambling. And don’t bother trying to deny it! Good golly, any fool could have read that piece in the Wall Street Journal last week to know what he must have lost in the crash. Or how many Beauregard Darenbrooks do you suppose there are? Or do you think that down here in Hilleanderville Daddy and I need an arrow-plane and skywriter to get the message?”
“I have not used the magazines in any way to bail Beau out,” Jackson said. (It was true. He was using his own money. And the miniseries bailed out DBS News and Old Hardhead bailed out the miniseries and Jackson was sure Langley would straighten the whole thing out no later than next summer.)
“I’m sorry, Jackie Andy, I am truly sorry, but I do not believe you,” Cordelia said. “I know that DBS News has you tied up for at least seventy million—Daddy’s got the figures right here on the kitchen table—and I happen to know that even if you robbed your poor misguided children you still couldn’t be intervening for Beau on your own. You’ve done well, Jackie, but not that well. And Norbert says that you lost quite a bit of money on the market yourself last fall.”
(Uh-oh. Cordie’s on the wrong train, but she’s on the right track.)
“I think, Cordelia,” Jackson had said quietly, “maybe you and I ought to get together soon and go over everything, so I can put your mind to rest.”
“Oh, I’m going to put my mind to rest all right,” she snapped. “Because I’m going to send a team of auditors up there to get to the bottom of this. I’d sooner see Beau in jail before I allow Darenbrook Communications to finance his gambling sprees. It’s got to stop, Jackie! This family has been paying his debts since he was thirteen years old and bet that nasty Elmo Puddleton a dollar he couldn’t knock the twins off the porch swing.”
“Cordie, come on—”
“Come on nothing! And while I’ve got your ear, Mr. Big Shotthese stories about you and that, that—anchor-girl. The town is carrying on so—I cannot even wheel our father down the street without someone making a remark. ‘Why, that randy boy of yours, Mistuh Darenbrook, how he’s carryin’ on with that girl half his age.’ “
At this point Jackson had clapped the phone into the side of the plane and held it there, yelling, “I’m losing the signal, Cordie, I’ll have to call you tonight.”
“Jackson,” Alexandra said, coming in through the conference-room door.
Hi,” Jackson said, looking at his watch. “My car should just be arriving. I stopped down to see if you wanted a ride.” (Okay, so his car had been waiting outside for one hour and fifty-two minutes, which was also how long he had been waiting to ask her if she’d like a ride.)
“Thanks, but it’s out of your way,” she said. “I’ll just call—”
“It’s not out of my way,” he said quickly. “I’m heading uptown.”
She covered her mouth to yawn. “Excuse me,” she murmured, dropping her hand. “Well, if you’re going that way, great. I have a friend visiting and I’m running very late.”
He almost asked who the friend was. (Somehow Alexandra didn’t seem the type to have friends who visited. Of course she must have friends, but still, it seemed strange to think of her ever seeing anyone from the outside world.)
He walked her up to her office on Darenbrook III to get her things, and then they went down to the carport where his limousine was waiting. As they pulled out of the West End driveway, heading north on West End Avenue, Jackson thought about how funny it was, but how the passing New York City streetlights and shadows had the same flattering effect on Alexandra that the television camera did. Her eyes were no longer a little tired-looking; she no longer seemed a trifle too thin. No. No, she didn’t. She looked gorgeous.
She was talking away about Jessica’s interview and he let himself think about other things—about her, actually—while he nodded and uh-huhed politely.
“She leads a rather fast life, doesn’t she?” Alexandra asked him. After a moment, “Jackson?”
“What?” he said, sighing a little, trying to figure out why his heart was pounding. Oh, he knew why. Yeah, he did.
He would do it. Try it. See what happened.
“I said, Jessica leads a rather fast life.”
“I guess,” he said, shrugging. “Looks it, doesn’t she?” He hoped he sounded indifferent enough to convince her that Jessica held no appeal for him. (Although she had before he had met Alexandra—but in a very different kind of way.)
Alexandra shifted in her seat slightly, making the leather creak. “She’s married, isn’t she?”
“She’s been trying to get divorced for a long time,” Jackson said. “He’s bad news, from what I hear.”
“Oh,” Alexandra said, turning to the window.
He slid over a little closer and Alexandra lowered her window, prompting a blast of cool air to hit their faces. He laughed to himself, backing off, not at all sure whether she had been aware of his maneuver or not, but finding it funny either way.
She slid the window back up and turned to him. “Jackson, have you ever met Cassy’s husband?”
“Ugh. Thank you, no. One Cochran’s enough, thank you,” he said.
She laughed. “You should someday. You’d like him, I think.” She paused, smiling, her eyes glittering in the passing lights. “It’s funny, but you remind me a little of him.”
“Oh, hell, no—don’t tell me that,” he groaned. “Somebody else told me that the other day. And I said, ‘Oh, so she must holler at him all the time.’ “ He laughed. “And the guy said, ‘Yeah, as a matter of fact, she does.’ “
“Not anymore,” Alexandra said, turning to look out her window. “They used to argue a lot, but not now.” And very quietly, so that he almost could not hear her, she added, “They’re one of the lucky ones—they’ve been able to turn their marriage around.”
The driver had turned east on 84th Street and was now turning south on Central Park West to drop Alexandra under the awning of the Roehampton. “Oh, we’re here,” she said then, reaching for her purse and carryall bag.
The doorman opened the door and Jackson reached over Alexandra, said, “In a minute,” and pulled the door closed again. Sitting back up straight, he smiled at her. And then he took her face into his hands and kissed her. In a moment he felt her hand come up to his chest and gently push him away.
Her eyes, in the light, that close, were not something he was likely to forget.
She closed them. And then, swallowing, she opened them. “I can’t lead you on, Jackson,” she whispered.
He pushed her hand away, saying, “Good, then I’ll lead you o
n,” and he kissed her again.
She pushed him away again, but this time abruptly. “Do you think I’m a fool?” she whispered. “Don’t you think I would if I could?” She shook her head and then, suddenly, her shoulders slumped. She looked at him. And then she pulled herself up to look him squarely in the eye. “I can’t do it, Jackson.” And then, very softly, “You must believe me—I’m not someone who would be good for you. I know.”
He decided to laugh to break the tension. But then, noting her expression—she was not the least bit amused—he immediately stopped, sighed, and hung his head. Literally, he hung his head. And well he should, he thought, because with the exception of Barbara—whom he had at least fired first—he had never made a pass at a Darenbrook employee before. (But this was not really why he was hanging his head. He was hanging his head because he knew if Alexandra did not think he felt badly about what had just happened, then she’d probably never be alone with him again, and if that happened, how would he get a chance to try again?)
Apparently he hung his head in the right way, for Alexandra leaned toward him, murmured, “Ad astra per aspera,” kissed him on the cheek and climbed out of the car, closing the door behind her.
He slid the window down. ‘Ad what?”
She turned around under the awning, wind blowing her hair. “Ad astra per aspera,” she repeated. “To the stars through difficulties.”
“The Bible?” Jackson said.
“State motto of Kansas,” Alexandra said. She smiled. “Good night, Jackson.”
12
What Happened That Night
Part II: Alexandra Returns Lisa Connors’ Call
Her breath was returning to normal. “Mmmmmm,” she said, kissing his ear, arms still wrapped around him.
Gordon smiled into her hair. “Love you,” he whispered.
“I love you too,” Alexandra murmured, kissing his ear again.
He lifted his head, kissed her on the nose and withdrew from her, sliding his right arm under her neck as he rolled onto his side, leaving his left arm across her chest. He sighed, content, curling one leg up over hers. He made another sighing sound, this time deep in his throat, and then another—he swallowed—and then he was silent, starting to drift… drift into sleep.
Alexandra lay there, eyes wide open, looking at the ceiling. The drapes of the windows overlooking Central Park were open and the gentle stream of city light flowing upward from the street cast faint shadows of the windowpanes over part of the ceiling, while the candle burning on the nightstand flickered light over the rest.
Blink. Blink. Blink.
After a few minutes she turned her head and kissed Gordon’s temple, and then tried to slip away.
“No,” he murmured, clinging.
“Go to sleep,” she whispered, lifting his arm and sliding away. Naked, she sat on the edge of the bed, brought her hands up to push back her hair, and then she stretched, hard, reaching for the ceiling, and then she relaxed, letting her arms fall. She turned to look back at Gordon. He was reaching about on the bed for her, blindly. Giving up, he rolled over onto his stomach, embracing the pillows. She crawled back and pulled the covers up over him.
She got up from the bed and went into the bathroom, closing the door softly behind her. There was the sound of bath water being drawn, and then of bathing. In a few minutes she came back out, tying the sash of a gray silk dressing gown around her. She stepped on something—ow—and reached down. An earring. She put it on the dresser, walked over to the night table, blew out the candle and went out.
At the doorway to the living room she flicked on the wall switch. A Waterford lamp on the end table next to the couch came on, illuminating a very large and very unfinished living room. Alexandra stood there, running her hands through her hair several times, looking at it. There was off-white carpeting on the floor and, on the near side of the room, a chintz-covered couch, two matching chairs, two end tables and a mahogany coffee table. That was it—except sheets of plastic over part of the floor and carpeting, unopened moving cartons, pictures leaning against the wall, bolts of fabric lying across one of the chairs, a stepladder, and various other odds and ends—odds and ends like her purse and carryall bag on the floor near the foyer, her shoes about a foot farther in from there; Gordon’s shirt lying across the coffee table and, next to it, his watch and her necklace and bracelets; three couch pillows strewn across the floor; his pants—with the belt still through the belt loops—scrunched down into the foot of the couch; and her dress draped over the far end table.
She smiled.
She went over to pick up her dress and went out to hang it up in the hall closet. Coming back, she rummaged through the pillows to retrieve her stockings and underwear. She picked up Gordon’s pants from the couch, shook them out and hung them over the back of a chair. And then, while fitting the cushions back into the couch, she found her slip, another earring, his boxer shorts and his wallet.
When she finished straightening up, she went—robe trailing behind her—down the hall to the kitchen. She flicked on the lights. It was a fairly large kitchen, the walls were painted a pale yellow, the wood cabinetry was oak, and there was an oak table and four chairs, next to which, on the wall, was a telephone with three different lines. The kitchen was pristine except for the table, upon which were four stacks of magazines, a Rolodex, six or seven pads of paper and a coffee mug full of pens and pencils.
Alexandra picked up the phone, punched in a number and then held the phone between her chin and her shoulder while she picked up a remote control from the table and zapped on the small TV set that was sitting on the counter. “Hi,” she said into the phone, “2980.” She zapped through TV stations with her left hand while feeling for—and finding—the refrigerator door with her right and opening it. “Who?” she said, stopping the station at CNN and slipping the remote control into the pocket of her robe. “Oh, no, I know who that is,” she said, leaning to look inside the refrigerator. “No, he’s the guy who’s supposed to finish the front hall floor before the year 2000.”
She took out a container of cottage cheese and a bottle of Perrier and set them on the table, closing the refrigerator door with her foot. “Oh, that’s the tiler.” She went about getting a spoon, a napkin and a glass, settling into a chair at the table, eyes back on the TV. “Look, do me a favor and hold these messages for tomorrow. The housekeeper’s coming at nine and I’d sooner she deal with it. What?” She was smiling, taking the lid off the cottage cheese. She got up to get a bowl, came back, sat down, laughing, and started spooning cottage cheese into it. “You got it,” she said. “Uh-uh, no way. I’ve had it. I told Mrs. Roberts that if it isn’t done by the end of the month, then I’m throwing every stick of furniture, every rug, every curtain rod—every person who rings the bell—out the window and be done with it.” She ate a spoonful of cottage cheese. Swallowing, “Yes. Save them for Mrs. Roberts. Thank you.”
She put another spoonful of cottage cheese in her mouth, dropped the spoon, slid over a pad and snatched a pen out of the cup. “Did she leave a number?” she asked. She scribbled something. “Uh-huh.” She put the pen down. “What, more? Who else?” She got in another bit of cottage cheese before dropping her spoon again to write something down. “Okay, okay.” She looked up at the clock—12:07—sighed, “No, all right, thank you. Thanks a lot. And you’ll hold those messages for tomorrow? Great. Good night.”
She pressed the disconnector in the phone and released it, heard the dial tone, pressed it again, released it again and then, after hesitating a moment, she turned around and hung up the phone. She took the remote control out of her pocket and turned up the volume of the TV, poured herself some Perrier and ate her cottage cheese. A little while later she ate some fresh fruit salad as well. She cleaned up everything, retaining her glass of Perrier, and looked at the clock again. 12:32. She went back over to the table, sat down and, after a moment, zapped the TV off and reached for the phone.
“Connors-Johnson residence,” a wo
man said.
“Hello, this is Alexandra Waring calling. I had a message to—”
“Yes, yes, Ms. Waring, if you’d only hold the line. Mrs. Johnson told me to get her when you called. Hold on, please.”
Alexandra sat there, mouth set, eyes on the table.
“Oh, this is wonderful,” a woman’s voice cried on the other end. “All I have to do is send Jessica to New York and you call me back the same day.”
“It would have been nice if you warned me a friend of yours was coming to DBS,” Alexandra said.
“Oh, Alexandra, don’t be cross with me—ask me how I am. Say to me, ‘Oh, Lisa, how are you? I’ve so missed you!’ “ She laughed.
“What have you been drinking?” Alexandra said, a faint smile emerging.
“You called during champagne,” she said. “Oh, Alexandra, remember? Every time I have it, I always think of you. Why don’t you just fly out tonight?”
“Lisa, please,” Alexandra said, pressing her hand against the bridge of her nose, “I cannot take this today. Please. I really can’t.”
“All right, all right, all right,” Lisa said cheerfully. “So tell me, don’t you just love Jessica? She’s a complete and utter mess, but I find her absolutely charming and irresistible anyway, don’t you?”
Alexandra dropped her hand to the table. “That’s what I’d like to know, Lisa—just how charming and irresistible was she, exactly?”
This sent Lisa into gales of laughter.
“Lisa—”
Her laughter was sounding very far away now, as if she might have dropped the phone to hold her sides. “Oh, my, oh, my,” she finally gasped into the phone. “You didn’t think—”
“I didn’t know what to think!” Alexandra said. “When she said, ‘A friend of yours wants me to give you a big Denver hello,’ I nearly had a heart attack.”
Alexandra Waring Page 18
