A small shiver went through Elizabeth. "Matt, we aren't wiping out those years. We've just made some changes—"
"We've changed everything. And we've just begun. Wait until I tell you what I have in mind for next year."
"You have. The Sun."
"That's only the beginning." He saw a shadow cross her face. "But this isn't the time to talk about it. Love and eating and skiing, this week. Remember?"
He lifted her hand and kissed the palm, feeling the muscles relax be-neath his lips, knowing she was willing herself to let it go, think of it later. In a moment the shadow was gone from her face, and, holding hands, they drank their hot coffee and talked of other things.
Skiing back from the restaurant, they felt the softness of falling snow on their faces and the next morning found unbroken powder on mountain trails where their long, deep S's were the only marks on the slope as they flew down, with plumes of snow thrown up behind them like great angel wings. At noon, when the mountain grew crowded, they skied down to spend the afternoon browsing through designer boutiques, art galleries, a sculpture courtyard, a charming bookshop in a restored Victorian house that reminded Elizabeth of her parents' shop on Canyon Road, and shops along the cobblestoned mall. "Holly," Elizabeth murmured, choosing an embroidered sweater at Pitkin County Dry Goods. "Peter, Heather, Saul, my parents ... I can't believe how far away they all seem. I can't even imagine going back."
"We have three more days," said Matt. "It's too early to think about going back. Anyway, my love, this is only the beginning. We'll have other vacations. Bigger and better."
"I like this one." Elizabeth put her arm through his, tucking her hand in his pocket, and they turned to stroll back to their apartment. Looking up, they saw skiers making their last run of the day: tiny, swaying figures coming down the huge mountain. They left the shops behind, walking along the base of the mountain, then heard the high-pitched chatter of voices as the door of the Tippler swung open and shut.
"A drink?" Matt asked, and they plunged into the din of conversations in half a dozen languages. Squeezed together at a small table, they looked at the crowd. "Let's go back to Chestnut Run," Matt suggested. "I'll buy you that eight hundred dollar sweater you liked." "You're not serious," Elizabeth said. "Probably not," he said gravely. "But if anyone notices we're wearing the only fifty dollar sweaters in the place, they might ask us to leave, and I don't want you to feel deprived."
Elizabeth burst out laughing. "I can't feel deprived; I have you. And the women here couldn't care less about my sweater; they're all wonder-ing where they can find a husband like mine, and of course they can't, at any price, so they're the ones feeling deprived. Drink your wine and stop worrying. Nothing can touch us."
The most serious topic in Aspen, once the day's skiing has been exhaus-
tively discussed, is dinner. "Three more nights," Matt said as they walked back from the Tippler. "Three more restaurants. The last two are your choice; I've already arranged for tonight."
"Arranged what?"
He unlocked their door. "Your husband is treating you to dinner and a show at—" The telephone was ringing and they started; they hadn't heard a telephone for four days. Elizabeth leaped for it. "No one would call unless something was wrong at home. ..."
But the call was not from Santa Fe; it was from Houston. "Elizabeth? Keegan Rourke. It seems a lifetime since I saw you, but you do remember—?"
"Yes, of course, but . . ." Keegan Rourke? Why would Keegan Rourke, whom she had last seen at her wedding, almost eighteen years ago, be calling her, and in Aspen, of all places? Unless— "Has something happened to Tony?"
Matt was watching her with a puzzled frown. "Keegan Rourke," she said with her hand over the mouthpiece.
"Who?"
"Tony's father."
"No, my dear," Rourke was saying. "Tony is his usual self. I talked to him yesterday, in Alaska." Rourke's voice, like Tony's, was smooth and deep, hinting at sexual desire and mysterious surprises. "I'm sorry to break in on your vacation," he said. "I called Matt's office and they gave me your number. I'm coming up tomorrow for some skiing and I'd like to see you—ski together, perhaps? Definitely have dinner."
Elizabeth was silent. What is this all about?
"Elizabeth?"
"Of course we can ski together, Keegan, if you'd like. But I don't think dinner—"
"Please. As my guest. It would give me great pleasure. I've never really had a chance to talk to Matt, you know."
"What does he want?" Matt asked.
"Keegan, please wait a minute." Elizabeth covered the mouthpiece again. "He's coming to Aspen; he wants to ski with us and take us to dinner and get to know you."
Matt's eyebrows went up. "He's been struck by a sudden desire to get to know me?"
"It doesn't make sense to me, either. Shall I tell him we can't see him? I already told him we couldn't have dinner."
"That's all he said? He wants to get to know me?"
"He's not a direct person. At least he wasn't when I knew him in Los Angeles. There's no reason for us to spend an evening with him, is there?"
"Curious," Matt said thoughtfully. "How did he find us?"
"He called your office."
"My office? Not our house? Elizabeth, let's do it. Would you really mind? I'd like to know what he's up to. You wouldn't mind one dinner, would you?"
Yes, Elizabeth thought. But into the telephone she said, "Thank you, Keegan, we'll be glad to have dinner with you."
"Very good." She heard the satisfaction in his voice. "I'll call you when I get in; I may not make it early enough for skiing. In fact, let's have dinner Thursday, instead of tomorrow, in case I'm delayed. I thought we'd go to Krabloonik, if you like it."
"We've never been there."
"Then I'll help you discover it. Will you make reservations?"
"If you like. Three of us at—eight o'clock?"
"Eight o'clock is fine. But make it for four; I'm bringing a friend. I'm greatly looking forward to seeing you, my dear. My regards to your husband."
Elizabeth turned from the telephone. "I don't understand it."
"Tell me about him," said Matt. "All I know is your parents gave him a kind of second home when his wife died."
She nodded. "Tony was three; it was before I was born. I have trouble talking about Keegan; I'm embarrassed by how much I idolized him while I was growing up. He was like a king to me, rich and powerful, or at least sure of himself, especially next to my father, who seemed so helpless: hating his job, hating the smog. . . ."
"What did Keegan hate?"
"We never knew. He never let on that anything bothered him. I know Mother stopped liking him after a while; probably because she never liked devious people, and Keegan was. He did things in roundabout ways; people had to guess what he was up to; he always kept them at a distance. And I guess it bothered Mother that my father seemed . . . stuck, while Keegan was making it very big."
"Big in what?"
"Oil. Tony told me he made a fortune when he moved to Houston. I think he's worth about half a billion dollars="
"Billion?"
"That's what Tony said. He went into real estate and, I think, television stations. Tony stopped talking about him a long time ago; I didn't know they were even in touch. ..." Her voice trailed away.
Matt put his arm around her. "What's wrong, my love?"
"Oh . . . that roundabout way of his—making us guess why he wants to see you. And I don't like anybody poking into our vacation."
"He won't take much of it. Where does he want to eat?"
"Krabloonik."
"Wonderful; I've been wanting to try it. We'll allow him one dinner, and that's all. And speaking of dinner—what's wrong?"
"I just realized—we're meeting him Thursday, not tomorrow. Matt, that's our last night in Aspen; I don't want to spend it with Keegan Rourke and some woman I've never met."
"He's bringing a woman? Then he'll want to be with her as much as we want to be with each oth
er. We'll find out what he wants, eat our dinner, and still have the night to ourselves. Now can we forget millionaire Rourke and think about the hungry Lovells? I was telling you, when we were interrupted, that we have reservations for the late seating at the Crystal Palace. And if we don't hurry, we're going to miss it."
They hurried, and arrived as the last of the waiting crowd was being seated. Their table was on the balcony of the restaurant, beside the brass railing, where they could look across the room at the tiny stage and piano below a massive tear-drop chandelier. On all sides, illuminated stained glass windows covered the walls; the large room was full and bright, the noise level high, and gradually, between their roast duck, a bottle of burgundy, and chocolate mousse, Elizabeth and Matt felt the outside world slide away. By the second song in the musical revue performed by the restaurant's waiters and waitresses—young, talented, and awesomely energetic—millionaire Rourke was forgotten.
Until the next evening, when he called from his home on Red Mountain. "Delayed by business and repairs on my plane," he told Matt, who answered the telephone. "Nicole wants to ski at Snowmass tomorrow, so we won't be together unless you want to join us."
"No," said Matt. "We'll ski here."
"Dinner, then. Elizabeth made reservations?"
"For eight o'clock."
"Excellent. I'll send my car for you at seven-thirty. It will be a pleasure to talk to you, Matt."
About what? Matt wondered, but didn't mention it to Elizabeth. Neither of them talked about Rourke; it was their last full day of skiing and they took advantage of it, weaving in and out of the trails on Bell Mountain until the lifts closed. They pulled off" their clothes, showered, and stretched out on the cushions in front of the fire where their vacation
had begun. "I think I've melted," Elizabeth sighed. "No more bones or muscles, just jelly."
Matt put his arms around her, holding her close, and they lay quietly, lulled to drowsiness on the soft pillows. "I don't want to move," he said. "Ever. I just want to hold you and love you and feel you against me, half of me, part of me."
"We can stay home." Elizabeth's lips barely moved against his chest. "Make an omelet, eat in front of the fire, pretend there's nobody else in the world."
"Sounds wonderful."
But after they dozed and woke to darkness, with only a few glowing coals in the fireplace, Matt rubbed his chin. "I'll have to shave before dinner. Do you have any idea what time it is?"
So much for the omelet, Elizabeth thought. She looked at her watch. "Six-thirty."
"Better get moving."
"How are we getting there?" she asked.
"He's sending a car."
"He's what?"
"He says he has a limousine picking us up at seven-thirty."
"You didn't tell me."
"It didn't seem important. He also mentioned a private plane. Limousine, plane, house on Red Mountain. Someday we'll have them, too."
"Fine," Elizabeth said absently, thinking about what she would wear.
"Are you wearing your white sweater?" Matt asked.
"I don't know. Why?"
"Because I bought you something. Wait here." He put a log on the fire and went into the bedroom, returning with a small white box. Elizabeth watched his nude body in the dancing light of the flames. Tall, lean, muscular, he moved with grace and a kind of coiled energy, as if he were holding himself back. Where would he leap if he had the chance? "To celebrate our week," he said, sitting beside her. "And to tell you I love you."
It was a Zuni necklace: ten ovals of silver filagree suspended in a V, each framing a polished sphere of deep red coral. "It's so beautiful. . . ." Elizabeth said softly.
He fastened it about her neck. "Nude with Necklace," he murmured, as if she were an oil painting. He kissed her mouth, her throat, her breasts. "My lovely and most loved Elizabeth. And now I'm going to get dressed."
Elizabeth stayed by the fire. She didn't want to go; she had no interest
in Rourke or his friend. Her hand touched the necklace. I could go as I am. Nude with Necklace. I'd certainly be noticed. And remembered. She smiled, then sighed. Get it over with. So we can be alone again.
As tall as Matt, and as lean, though twenty-eight years older, Keegan Rourke was silver-haired, with a thin, patrician nose, pale eyes, and the casual confidence of an impressively handsome man of wealth and power. At Krabloonik, he was the one who attracted attention. The restaurant, high in the mountains at Snowmass, was decorated in a style that managed to be both rustic and elegant, from its dark wood walls to the intimacy of its few tables and booths and the antique gas lamps hanging from the low ceiling. In the corner booth, Rourke sat across from Elizabeth, meeting her puzzled eyes with an admiring scrutiny. "You're as lovely as Tony said; far lovelier than the young woman I last saw on her wedding day . . . how long ago?"
"Seventeen years," Elizabeth replied. "Almost eighteen."
"My God, the years fly." Rourke shook his head. "I did visit Zachary once; he took me to Nuevo. You and Matt were away, probably skiing, now that I think about it. And I meant to stop by again to see you two, and Spencer and Lydia when they moved there, but it never worked out. Of course Tony kept me informed. Ah, Nicole," he said as a woman was led to their table. "May I present my friends. Elizabeth and Matthew Lovell: Nicole Renard. Nicole found acquaintances at the bar and stopped to talk with them. Wine, my dear? Or something else?"
With a swift glance at the others' wine glasses, Nicole adapted. "Wine, thank you." And as Rourke filled her glass she openly studied Matt and Elizabeth, her gaze moving slowly from the honey-dark hair framing Elizabeth's face to her white cashmere sweater and Zuni necklace, and then on to Matt.
She was the most strikingly beautiful woman Elizabeth had ever seen. Wearing black velvet pants and a black sweater beaded with jet, her black hair swept back from her face, she wore no makeup, letting her smooth features and heavy-lidded amber eyes impress with their own pale perfection. Elizabeth guessed she was about thirty; young, polished, aloof, she made Elizabeth suddenly aware of her age. But when Nicole turned back to her after an inspection of Matt, Elizabeth, returning look for look, saw the flaw in what had seemed perfect beauty: a small curve at the corners of her mouth, hinting at greed and calculation. But it was not easy to spot; only women whose husbands had received a long, measured look from those amber eyes would see it.
"How was Aspen Mountain?" Rourke asked, making conversation as
they studied the menu. "Good skiing over here. No crowds at Campground and we found a little devil of a run, Garret Gulch, . . ."
"It's been a quiet week," Matt said absently. He didn't want the obligatory discussion of skiing, or a lengthy debate over dinner. He always selected quickly and decisively at restaurants, impatient with those who wavered, and he was ready for Rourke to come to the point. He had been struck by Nicole's beauty and briefly curious—she was, he guessed, nearly forty years younger than Rourke—but it was not unusual in Aspen to find stunning young women in the company of wealthy men, and Matt was more interested in Rourke. "I wondered why you called my office—" he began, but the waitress interrupted, reciting the evening's specials.
When they had made their choices, Rourke ordered two bottles of Zinfandel and talked casually about skiing in St. Moritz, Gstaad, and Aspen. "Which do you prefer?" he asked Elizabeth.
"I have no idea," she said, "since we've never been to Europe."
"Never been—! I would have thought, surely you would have. ..."
Too polite to ask if it was money, Elizabeth thought. "We never found the time," she said simply.
"But you must find the time." Rourke was emphatic. "You and Matt are perfect for Europe because you'd get more from it than most people." He nodded to himself. "Certainly you must find a way to go."
It was as if he were dangling Europe before them, like bait, Elizabeth thought. "We plan to," she said briefly, uncomfortable and annoyed and wishing she could just ask him what he wanted. But they were all be
ing very polite, so she said nothing else, turning to look out the window at the terrace, while Rourke talked about music festivals in Aspen, Salzburg, and the cathedral towns of England. Like Tony he controlled the conversation with a smooth voice and perfect timing. This was the father Tony had escaped, Elizabeth remembered: His shadow, the reach of his long arm. I'd like to escape, too, she thought. And as soon as we've eaten, we will, whether he's revealed his mysteries or not. I don't even care what they are.
Rourke was talking about ski lodges in Switzerland when the waitress brought their wild mushroom soup. He picked up his spoon. "Of course you should have a local agent check out any lodge for you before you make reservations. That's as true of Aspen as it is of St. Moritz. What changes are you and Milgrim planning for the Sun?"
It took a moment to sink in; then Matt said sharply, "That sale hasn't gone through."
"And it hasn't been made public," Elizabeth added. "And how do you know Saul? He's never worked in Houston."
Rourke chuckled. "I read the Chieftain; his name is on the masthead. And because my interests require accurate information, I have various sources reporting to me. Nothing mysterious about it."
Drama, Elizabeth thought. Just like Tony. Again.
"I like what you've done with the Chieftain," Rourke said to Matt. "Though I think you could have knocked out the Taos and Espanola papers if you'd staffed offices in those towns instead of hiring local reporters. Was Milgrim the cautious one? Or Elizabeth? I wouldn't say caution is one of your traits." Matt had put aside his soup and was watching Rourke, angry, baffled, reluctantly admiring. "And you're buying the Sun," Rourke went on, "because all you could afford in Albuquerque was a suburban paper. You asked a couple of bankers about the Daily News, but it wasn't for sale and you probably knew you couldn't afford it anyway, but you were storing information for the future. The Sun isn't big enough for you, of course, but you had to start somewhere. We really should pay attention to the soup; it's the best I've ever tasted."
Private affairs : a novel Page 13
