Matt's eyebrows went up. "You don't have much confidence in your mother, do you?"
"What the hell does that mean?"
"You don't think your mother can take care of herself. I do. I trust her to know what she's doing, and make her own decisions."
"Shit!" Peter flung himself away and strode to the water's edge.
"Daddy, that wasn't nice," Holly said hesitantly.
Matt watched his son's lanky figure bending and straightening as he picked up stones and skipped them across the surface of the water. "He has to understand that we're old enough to manage our own lives."
"But he thinks you're managing Mother's."
"Then he's wrong."
Holly looked the other way, gazing pensively at the pelicans, still grouped in serious discussion. "Do you think you'll be home by Christmas?"
"Home? You mean living in Santa Fe?"
She nodded.
"Holly, I can't . . . why do you ask?"
"Mother thinks you will."
Matt sat up, his arms around his knees. "I don't know whether she really believes that or not. But she knows how much is at stake here—so do you and Peter, because I've told you often enough—and she knows I can't just walk away from it. Not now; not at Christmas. Sweetheart"— he put his arm around Holly and she rested her head on his shoulder—"I love you and Peter and I love to be with you. I'm proud to be your father; I'm proud to be your friend. And I expect us to visit and write letters and talk on the telephone. But I'm not moving back to Santa Fe. A long time ago I changed direction for my father, and then I stayed where I was because you and Peter were young and needed security—and we did, too, I guess. But you're not young anymore, and your mother and I don't need the kind of security we clung to for so many years ... we have more money than ever before, for one thing. So I can't go backward. There's room for your mother in that enormous apartment I have, if she decides to share my life again. You can tell her that; it's hardly a secret."
Holly sat straight. "You want her to come to Houston? You miss her? You need her?"
There was a barely perceptible pause. "Of course."
"And you want me to tell her that, toe?" Holly asked shrewdly.
Matt sighed. "Holly, give us time. Are you and Peter so sure your mother is really unhappy about this? She's never had a life of her own; she's never even had any time to herself. Neither have I. Maybe we both need it, to explore on our own. Then we'll see. Give us time; don't push us."
Holly's eyes met his. "That sounds like the kind of thing you'd say to make yourself feel better about what you've done."
Matt felt as if he'd been punched in the stomach. "I'll have to think
about that," he began, then saw with relief that Peter was coming toward them, scuffing sand with his toes.
He stopped in front of Matt. "I guess you're right. I was thinking about Maya—she's already worrying about when I go to Stanford—and I just thought Mother must feel the same way because she's a woman and she's staying home ... I just want her to be happy."
"I know," Matt said gently.
"It's not that I don't want you to be happy, too, but. . . ."
"I know," Matt said again. "And I'm proud of you, because you care so much about your family, even when you're about to go off to make your own life. And Holly, too: both of you ought to be all wrapped up in yourselves and the exciting things happening to you, but you still worry about us. That means a great deal to me." There was a pause. He slid a few inches to the right. "Need some room?"
Looking to left and right along the thirty-six miles of beach, Peter broke into a grin. "I was thinking it was a little crowded. ..."
They laughed, and as Peter sat down, Matt said, "Why is Maya worried about your leaving? I thought she was planning to go to Stanford with you."
"It's too late," Peter replied. "She kept arguing with her mother about Argentina, but now that she's won and her mother says she doesn't have to go, it's past the deadline for fall. I'm not sure she could even make it for winter. She needs a scholarship, too."
"Maybe I could help. Sometimes a phone call to the right person. . . ."He paused. "Or would you rather I stayed out of it?"
"No, it's just that . . . Shit, it's a lousy thing to say, but—"
"But you think you'd like to be free for this new adventure."
Peter grunted. "I don't like to say it. Or even think it. Like I'm betraying her. I guess you know what that feels like."
"I guess in a way I do."
Holly listened to the two voices weaving together like the notes of a song. After a while she joined them, her musical voice a counterpoint to their deep ones. And it was like that all weekend. They had dinner at the Wentletrap, changing in the restrooms from jeans and T-shirts to a white summer dress for Holly and slacks, jackets and ties for Peter and Matt, and Holly thought what a handsome family they made, sitting in the dining room of the restored building that looked more European than American, eating fish caught that day right off the island and drinking white wine.
Matt had made so many plans for Sunday they had to choose among them. Peter chose a tour of outdoor sculptures and they spent the morn-
ing driving through empty streets connecting the cluster of dramatic skyscrapers that were Houston's downtown, to see works of Miro, Dubuffet, Nevelson, even Claus Oldenburg's "Geometric Mouse X" that he'd heard about but had seen only in books. Holly chose brunch amid the marble and silks and tapestries of the Remington Hotel, and they lingered over quail and snapper and hot almond cake with amaretto in the greenhouse off the dining room. Their table was near a harpist and flutist whose music floated about them like bright crystals in the sun and they talked as if they had all the time in the world and had never been apart.
That evening, after an afternoon of museums and Hermann Park's planetarium and zoological gardens, and what Matt called a down-home dinner at the Confederate House, Peter said, "It was a better weekend than I expected."
"For me, too," Matt said, echoing his son's honesty. They were driving again—it seemed to Peter and Holly that most of what they'd done all weekend was drive; everything was so far from everything else—and he said, "We'll stop at home to pick up your luggage and then go straight to the airport."
"Home," Peter said pointedly.
"My home," said Matt. He drove through the wrought-iron gate. "I live here." In the apartment, Matt went to the study where Peter had slept and turned on his telephone answering machine. "As soon as you're finished packing, we'll go."
Stuffing their bags with clothes and new books and shells from the beach at Galveston, Holly and Peter half-listened to the recorded voices greeting Matt: a man with a problem about circulation in Denver; another with a question about an editorial on a new ski resort at Pagosa Springs; and then a woman's warm, husky voice. "Matt, I've reserved Tony's wine cellar for next Thursday night, to say goodbye to my friends before I leave for cooler climates. Please come; it won't be a proper going-away party unless everyone I'll miss most is part of it. Call me soon."
Peter's face was like stone when Matt looked up and met his eyes. " Tony's wine cellar'?" Holly asked from the doorway. "Does Tony Rourke have a house here?"
"Tony's is a restaurant," Matt said. "No relation to Tony Rourke. The wine cellar is a good place for lunch, and it's reserved for private parties at night. Peter, when your mother is invited to parties—"
"She hasn't been."
"She will be. Will you tell her to stay home?"
Peter looked at his feet. My mother doesn 't know anybody with a voice like that. "I guess not."
"I hope not. Both of us need friends." He reset the answering machine and picked up their luggage. "Ready to go?"
When they were in the car, retracing their route of the day before, this time with Holly in the back seat, Matt said, "You'll come back soon, won't you? I want to be as much a part of your lives as I can."
"Double lives," Peter mumbled.
"What?" asked Holly, leaning forward.
"Double lives, double families, double homes, double cities. We used to have one family. Now we've got two."
"When that happens," Matt said, pulling into a parking place at the airport, "make the best of both of them."
"Sure," Peter said. He thought about it while they walked through the terminal to their gate. And when it came time to board the plane and Holly hugged and kissed her father goodbye and Peter self-consciously shook hands with him, he couldn't keep from saying, "You're really coldblooded about the whole thing, aren't you?"
"No," said Matt. He pulled Peter to him and hugged him. "I have a lot of second thoughts, and I miss you all. But this is what I have to do."
"Are you going to call that woman back?"
"Yes. She's a friend. But listen to me, both of you." He held their hands in his. "We're going to be friends, more than ever before, I promise that, and we're going to help each other. And I'll try to make you understand what I'm doing and why I think it's important. I'd like your approval. And your love."
"Well, you've got that," Holly said. They walked to the gate. "We'll give your love to Mother, too."
And they went through the doorway to the plane, their last view of Matt the same as the one yesterday morning: taller than everyone else, standing alone, hoping for their smile.
N,
icole let the chiffon stole slip from her bare shoulders and settled with a sigh into the curve of the wing-backed chair. "My favorite place to relax,*' she said in her husky voice, and smiled at Matt as he turned back to her from a quick study of the antiques and fine paintings that had furnished La Colombe d'Or since its days as a private home. "The Fondrens built it; they were one of the founders of Exxon. They called it Humble Oil, then, though not much in Houston is humble—"
"Or stays that way," Matt finished, smiling with her. "But you're right; it's a beautiful place."
"And nicer than usual, with good company after a weekend entertaining an extremely dull crowd. How was yours? Work or play?"
"A little of both," Matt replied wryly. "I entertained my offspring and fended off criticism."
"Surely not the whole weekend."
"No, mostly we had a good time. It's wonderful being with them. But now and then, without warning, there were jabs."
She tilted her head. "Mostly from your son, I'd bet. Protecting his mother."
Matt picked up the oversize wine list. "What would you like? Wine? Cognac?"
"Amontillado, please." She seemed about to say more, then was silent, and Matt admired her for it. He'd made it clear they were not to discuss his family, and she accepted it without comment.
He put the wine list aside. "Who was the dull crowd you entertained this weekend?"
"Some investors Keegan is wooing for a hotel and conference center in Breckenridge. I learned more about square footage and tax revenues and Colorado politics than I ever wanted to know. You and I can find more interesting subjects to talk about."
"Your trip, then. I didn't know you were going out of town." A waiter approached, and he ordered the same sherry for both of them. "You didn't mention it last week."
"I'm sorry; I suppose I assume everyone knows. No one stays in Houston in July and August, Matt."
"Except a few working people."
"But you could get away, couldn't you? Keegan wouldn't crack such a mean whip—"
"What does he have to do with it? I make my own schedule; I know how much work I have to do."
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that." The waiter put their drinks on the table. "All of a sudden we seem to be angry with each other."
"I'm the one who should apologize. I'm jealous because you're getting out of this muggy metropolis. Where are you going?"
"Maine. I own a small place there."
Matt thought of her sprawling house and the apartment she had decorated for him. "You have your own definition of 'small.' A small house? A small hotel? A small town?"
"A small island." She looked quizzically at him and they laughed. "With a rather small house, and a truly small motor boat to get to the small town on the shore."
"Plus a small staff."
"Two people. In the summer my needs are simple, my wants are few."
"Nothing about you is simple."
She gave him a long, slow smile, then raised her glass. "To simple desires."
He touched her glass with his, and she sat perfectly still, letting him look at her, as she had at her party. In the muted light from antique glass fixtures, her bare shoulders were pale against a black strapless dress embroidered in black roses. At her throat was an ebony rose on a silver
chain; her hair was a cloud of black darkening her amber eyes. Her scent was elusive, faintly spicy; her fingers long, with polished nails; the corners of her mouth curved with pleasure at the look in his eyes. "I'm glad I meet with your approval."
"And if you didn't?" Matt asked.
"I'd change what you didn't approve ... or change your mind about approving it."
He chuckled. "Which would be easier?"
"It would depend on where we were, and what we were doing."
The spiciness of her perfume blended with the heady aroma of his sherry and, instinctively, Matt sat back in his chair, putting distance between them. "Tell me about Maine," he said. "I've never been there."
"Cool and forested," she replied, once more letting him guide their conversation, once more doing it without visible disappointment or anger. "Rocky soil and shoreline, high waves, chilly nights with black shadows from a white moon. Wild and beautiful and the perfect antidote to the bayou and a season of parties."
"You enjoy parties."
"I couldn't live without them. But Maine is like the day after an all-night bash: a cool place to stretch out and relax, relive the night before, plan the next one. ..."
"Plot the future."
"Plots are for writers and spies. I dream. And try to make my plans match my dreams."
The waiter paused at their table. Matt ordered two more sherries, then, smiling easily, said, "Well put. Now tell me more about your small island."
A shadow crossed her eyes, gone the instant Matt identified it as her first betrayal of impatience. But then she did as he asked, talking pleasantly about her ten-room house and gazebo surrounded by pines; the gardens tended by a local gardener who grew snapdragons, asters, and dahlias in planters atop the shallow soil, as well as cherry tomatoes and bibb lettuce for her table; days spent swimming off the rocks, water skiing, shopping for handcrafts in the towns along the coast. Undemanding, amusing, worldly, she told him in a dozen unspoken ways how attractive she found him. The perfect companion, Matt thought, and was thinking of extending his original invitation for a drink to include dinner when, as if anticipating him, she mentioned a dinner party where she was expected at eight-thirty. "And I'd better get home or I won't have time to change." She slipped out of her chair. "I've enjoyed this. If you wait too long to call again, I'll call you, so we can repeat it."
Peter would have snorted, Matt thought as they parted in front of the hotel; he'd have said she was playing games. And he would have been right. But even Peter had been captivated by Nicole's voice on the recorder. Peter would understand her attraction, and the pleasure a man would take in her games—and in being pursued.
Though, even understanding that, Peter still would have found a way to make a pointed comment about his mother—to make sure his father hadn't forgotten her.
His father hadn't forgotten.
Matt thought about Elizabeth more now, it seemed, than before their break at the end of May. By the beginning of July, he still found himself frequently reaching for the telephone to call her. But often there was no answer. She was probably shopping, he thought. Or interviewing for her column, or that damn television show. Or visiting Isabel or her parents. Or talking shop with Saul at the Chieftain. How the hell could he keep track of what she did with her days? Or her nights? Sometimes she was there and they exchanged a few words; other times he talke
d to his children or Lydia, who frequently answered to say she and Spencer were taking Peter and Holly to dinner because Elizabeth was in Los Angeles.
But his own days and nights were so crowded he couldn't think about Elizabeth for long before something broke in. As soon as it became known that he was living in Houston, his calendar filled up with meetings, paperwork piled high on his desk, his hours at the office grew longer. He was still buying papers, based on Chefs reports; he talked every week to each of his twenty-one editors and tried to keep up with the politics in all twenty-one cities and whatever local issues got people aroused enough to fork over twenty-five cents a day to read about them. Between telephone calls he read reports on circulation campaigns, contests to capture new readers, plans for changes in layout, whether using color would attract enough new readers to justify the expense, how important readers thought bigger weather maps and longer television listings were since they left less space for local stories—dozens of reports, dozens of questions that someone had to answer.
"You can't do it all," Chet told him as he added a folder to the stack on Matt's desk. "New people always think they can, but of course they fail. You should tell Mr. Rourke you need an assistant, maybe two or—"
"Thank you," Matt said curtly. "I'll tell Mr. Rourke what I need when I need to. Is that the financial report on the Austin Star?"
"Right." His face blank, Chet turned to go. "They're anxious to sell. If you have any questions, don't hesitate to call me."
Absently, Matt nodded. Elizabeth would say he should be more careful
with Chet. And she'd be right. But he didn't have the patience; lately his temper was more erratic than ever. And he didn't have time, either, to tiptoe around Chet. Not only because of paperwork and phone calls and traveling two or three days a week, but also because he still was being tested, his decisions scrutinized, his activities monitored. He saw Rourke daily, and was part of everything that affected his newspapers, yet he felt he had to tread carefully, constantly proving himself.
Private affairs : a novel Page 32
