Elizabeth read through it rapidly. "I like it all, but I think you'd appeal to more people if you added cross-country skiing. What if you combined the cross-country race in Chama with the veteran's downhill race in Taos? Put them together in a full-page spread, with photos from last year. And then why don't you send it to Paul Markham? If he likes it, the story could be all over the country and you'd be a hero for getting publicity for the Chieftain, not to mention the state of New Mexico."
"Clever on all counts. Any other suggestions?"
"No. I told you: I like it all." She stood up. "Can I work in your old office for a while? I like to get away from mine at home now and then."
"My old office? That closet? Work in here; more room to spread out."
Elizabeth shook her head. "You're running the paper, Saul; you deserve the elegant office."
He gazed at the tilted, torn couch, the shabby chairs and scratched desk, the worn patches in the linoleum floor. "Slightly less than elegant. Heather thinks I should have a carpet."
"I do, too. And new furniture. In fact, why don't you get the whole office redecorated? There's no reason to keep it this way."
"I'd rather wait. Its rightful owner may come back and disapprove of my choice of colors."
"Saul. Please have it redecorated. In whatever colors you want." She
gathered up her coat and briefcase. "I'll be in your cubicle if you need me.
"Hold on, I almost forgot; are you free for dinner tonight? Heather invited some people; she says you'd like them. Holly, too."
"I'd love to come. Thank you, Saul. I'll have to let you know about Holly."
"I wish we had a dashing prince to offer her as a first course, or for dessert."
"She could use one. Or a concert hall or opera house. Maybe just college. She's terribly restless lately. I'll call Heather later, to let her know."
In the small cubicle Saul had used when he first arrived, Elizabeth spread out her notes for a magazine article on a group of young people she had met in Rome, who had quit high school to go around the world.
"Mrs. Lovell," the receptionist said from the doorway, "do you want to talk to the people who call about your column?"
Elizabeth looked up. "How many are there?"
"Eight so far today, and I thought as long as you're here. ..."
"I don't think so; I can't take the time. Just keep a list, as usual, and I'll write to them later."
"You write to all of them? Forty or fifty a week?"
"Closer to three hundred, from all the newspapers and television. But I have two people helping me." She turned back to her notes. At first Heather had helped, until the job got too big; then Elizabeth had hired a full-time secretary and a student from Santa Fe State College, who worked at two small desks she had bought and moved into the study. When she worked at home she used a desk and computer she had set up in Peter's room; when Peter was home from college she moved into the living room.
"I'll give you an office here," Saul had said. "With new furniture and a door that locks." But Elizabeth had put off that decision. She liked getting out of the house and working near the camaraderie and bustle of the newsroom, but she still got a shock when she looked up and saw Saul, not Matt, in the corner office, and she could not bring herself to make a permanent change.
"Mrs. Lovell," the receptionist said on the intercom, "an editor at Good Housekeeping is on the phone."
Elizabeth took the call and answered questions about her story. As she hung up, there was a knock on the doorframe and she looked around to see Maya's tentative smile. "Come in," she said, and listened to Maya's jumbled talk about Peter and political campaigns and Nuevo. "Maya, this
isn't a good place to talk," she broke in at last. "I can't speak for Peter any more than I can tell you what to do, but maybe it will help you sort things out if I just listen and ask questions. I'll come to Nuevo on Saturday."
Maya bent and kissed her. "I wish I had a mother like you."
And Holly, short-tempered and restless these days, probably wishes she had someone else's mother. As Maya left, Elizabeth turned to the computer and worked for a few minutes before the telephone rang. "Damn," she muttered, but answered it. "Elizabeth," her secretary said, calling from her house. "The New York Press Women are on the other line; they want you to speak at their annual convention in March."
"Don't I have Tulsa in March? The Junior League?"
"Yes, but New York is three weeks later. And Tulsa wants you to tell them how you juggle writing and television with being a wife and mother."
Plus a lover and a gossip columnist, she thought. And the girl my son left behind, and a difficult high school daughter, not to mention Isabel and the others who want help in figuring out what to do . . . and a husband I can't stop thinking about, no matter how much I squeeze into each day.
"They're very keen to have you in New York," her secretary went on. "They said you're the first speaker they've ever invited who doesn't write on government or foreign policy. And in their last survey, 'Private Affairs' got the highest recognition factor of any national column except for Ann Landers. I must say I've never heard a New York media person sound so enthusiastic."
It ran through Elizabeth like a fine wine: the excitement of being recognized. The wonderful feeling of being sought out.
"All right; say yes to the press women and tell them I'm grateful for their enthusiasm. And while I'm there I'll do some interviews for my column and 'Anthony'—would you pull out the files on New York and New Jersey? And call our New York television station and give them the dates—I'll stay two days, no more—so they'll have a taping crew ready."
"Shall I call you back to confirm all that?"
"No. I'll be home about four."
She turned back to the notes for her magazine story. Beside them was the letter commissioning the story; the editor admired ". . . your special flair with men and women, particularly young people, who don't know how much they have to say until you draw them out."
The excitement of being praised. The thrill of being wanted. The sound of applause.
It's the next best thing to being loved.
The next hour was peaceful, with the newsroom activity a pleasant background to the quiet click of her computer keys, until the telephone rang again. "Elizabeth, I want to talk to you," Spencer said. "How about lunch today?"
"I'd love it." Elizabeth looked at the small calendar she always carried with her. A dress fitting at two and an interview at two-thirty. "Is twelve-thirty all right?"
"Fine. The Haven at twelve-thirty."
She typed rapidly for fifteen minutes and then once again the telephone rang. She tried to ignore it, then, exasperated, answered it.
"Don't blame the receptionist," Tony said. "I told her it was a matter of psychological desperation, with the future of American television hanging in the balance."
She laughed. "I'm sure she had no idea what that means, and neither do you. Tony, I came here to escape the telephone so I could get some work done."
"There is no escape from your adoring public. What time shall I send the plane for you tomorrow?"
"About six."
"That late? I hoped we'd have the afternoon."
"We'll have all day Friday. I can't leave until I finish the first draft of this article, and I want to write a column on the interview I have this afternoon, and Holly's leaving school early so we can go shopping. I'll be lucky to make it by six."
"Then let's eat in tomorrow night. On Friday you'll edit your tape and we'll meet with Bo and then we'll buy clothes and trinkets on Rodeo and elsewhere, but tomorrow night we'll stay home. Would you mind? My chef has mastered Cajun and Thai; you have your choice."
"Wonderful. Thank you, Tony; I'd much rather have privacy."
"Is there a reason for that?" he asked after a pause. "Polly's prattle, for instance?"
"It wasn't prattle; it was mostly the truth."
"Including the part about only your marriage standing between us?"
"No. That part wasn't. Tony, I have to get back to work. We can talk tomorrow."
"Oh, yes, work. Bo has the rest of January and all of February blocked out; he wants your ideas for March. He's joining us for breakfast Friday morning. And the publicity department wants background material on the Americans in Europe you're using in February, so bring your notes. Also we have an interview set up for you here, if you want to do it: some
joker who's written thirty books and hasn't had one of them published, so he's putting them in a time capsule because he says people appreciate dead authors more than live ones. Don't laugh; he's serious. Think about whether you want him. Oh, and I can't find your red velvet skirt; did you take it home last week?"
"Yes. Why were you looking for it?"
"I was going through your closet and I couldn't find it."
"Going through my closet?"
"I do it once a day, to make sure I didn't dream you. Goodbye, sweet Elizabeth; I'll see you tomorrow."
Elizabeth paused to contemplate the image of Tony Rourke going through the clothes she kept at his Malibu house. It isn't true, of course; he just likes the way it sounds. Why does he think he has to dramatize everything to keep me fond of him, and in his bed?
"I've been brooding," Spencer said at lunch at The Haven, just up the road from his wife's bookshop and his woodworking shop. "Your mother says things didn't work out the way she expected them to. It occurred to me that was the way you felt, too."
"A lot of people feel that way, don't you think?" Elizabeth asked mildly.
"You see," he said, going on with his thought, "I'm seventy-seven and I thought that was old enough to do whatever made me happiest. But I'm not old enough to make your mother unhappy; I probably never will be. I love her, you know."
Elizabeth smiled. "What started you thinking about this after all this time?"
"You mean after all this time hiding in my workshop. Saul and Heather's wedding. And seeing you and Matt, standing there, talking, your heads close together and your hearts a thousand miles apart. It made me melancholy. I don't like to think of you as not settled."
"Settled," Elizabeth repeated. She set her wine glass on the table and gazed at him. "I'm forty-two years old, with a son in college and a daughter graduating high school; I've paid off the mortgage on my home; I do work that I love; I'm admired and well-known; and I have an income in excess of a hundred thousand dollars a year, not including my husband's contribution—"
"What husband?" Spencer took her hand and contemplated her gold wedding band. "Do you have one or not?"
"I'm not sure." Elizabeth looked through the window beside their table. The front porch of the low adobe building had been swept clean, but snow covered the small yard and the steps of art galleries and craft shops
up and down Canyon Road. Everything was very still; the narrow street of low adobe buildings set in snowcovered yards seemed frozen in its serenity. The hard-edged skyscrapers of Houston, the lush gaudiness of Los Angeles, the ancient stones and grand monuments of Europe were far away. "But whether I have one or not, I'm securely settled on my own. You don't have to worry about me."
"I don't worry about money or work." Spencer picked moodily at his smoked trout. "I worry about somebody to keep you warm at night. That's what your mother complained about: she missed it."
"I miss it, too," Elizabeth said quietly.
"Then, damn it, tell me what you want me to do! A father ought to help his daughter. I've been slow getting to it, but here I am; what can I do? Talk to Matt? Drag him back here? Convince you to get a divorce? Maybe you just need someone to listen to your problems. I know, I know, I haven't been around. But I'm around now. Tell me about Tony Rourke. He called one day when we were at your house; you were off somewhere on an interview. Would he take better care of you than Matt?"
Elizabeth laughed. "I don't need taking care of. I like Tony; we work together and we have a good time. But I'm not planning to marry him. I don't want you to do anything for me but make Mother happy. Are you going to spend more time in the bookshop?"
"Some of the time. But for the rest, we're going to find a manager. Lydia ought to be able to get out once in a while too, you know."
"What a good idea," Elizabeth said, smiling. "And what will the two of you do after you've gotten out?"
"Travel, go to concerts and movies, work together in the bookshop some of the time, share my woodworking. Lydia says she wants to learn all about varnish. I told her with her light touch she'd be an expert in no time."
Is it possible that if we wait long enough, we'll get everything we want?
Elizabeth stretched her hand across the table. Spencer took it and for a few minutes they sat in silence. "I'm really all right," she said. "There isn't anything I want you to do but show me that the two of you are happy."
"That's not a problem anymore. We're taking care of it. We still have to take care of yours."
Elizabeth bit back a retort. "Let me handle my problems," she said gently. "Maybe if you knew some of the things I'm doing, you'd feel better. It's been so long since we really talked. ..." And through the rest of their lunch, while they ate their trout and finished a bottle of wine and shared a dessert, she amused him with stories about Europe and Los
Angeles, readers' comments on "Private Affairs," quotes from Peter's letters from school, and praise from Holly's voice teacher.
Spencer listened; he nodded, smiled, and chuckled. And then, as they walked out into the sharp clear air where powdery snowflakes caught the sun as they danced in the breeze, he took Elizabeth's arm. "Of course if you don't love Tony, that's that. But what about this fellow Paul Mark-ham? Your mother said Heather said Saul said he's called you at the paper a number of times—why are you laughing?"
"Because I love you." Elizabeth kissed him. "Would you make a jewelry box for Holly's graduation? She's been wanting one made of rosewood. Oval, hinged, with red felt inside."
"And varnished by your Mother."
"Perfect. It would be from both of you. Thank you for lunch; I'll talk to you soon."
When she flew to Los Angeles the next day, Elizabeth tried to tell Tony about it— he's seventy-seven and she's seventy and they're finally getting themselves straightened out —but Tony didn't want to talk. As soon as the limousine brought her from the Santa Monica airport, he took her in his arms, his mouth and hands rousing her in an instant. "My God, I missed you," he said. "A whole week without you. ... I dreamed of you; I wanted you every minute. I can't stand this house when you're not here; it's so empty. I'm so empty. ..." Undressing her, his hands moved over her body, touching, stroking, exploring, with an intensity that made Elizabeth dizzy. "Once a week," he murmured. "My God, I go crazy wanting you." And he took her to his bed for the hour before dinner and again later, when the ocean was dark and the thunder of the waves seemed to lift the house above the sand, and beneath the urgency of his hands and fingertips and whispering mouth Tony gave her no time to think.
Late that night, when he slept, Elizabeth lay awake, wondering why she could not love him. They had everything she had ever wanted: they worked together and slept together; they were known as a couple in Los Angeles—and in Polly Perritt's column—and nationally as partners on "Anthony"; they had a good time together.
She moved her head restlessly on the pillow. She was grateful for his desire and his lovemaking; when they were apart she missed the words he scattered over her like soft, scented rose petals—telling her she was exquisite and sensual, as slender as a girl, as warm and strong as a woman, as sexy as a fantasy, as haunting as a dream. And what woman doesn't long for those words? Elizabeth asked herself. But there was too much drama in Tony and no room for simple emotions; too much striving to win and
no sharing of feelings. I can't love him, she thought, unless I could see behind the facade. Then, perhaps. . . .
The next morning, before Boyle joined them for breakfast, Tony again asked her to marry him. He caught her as she climbed out of hi
s pool. "Enough is enough," he said. He paused to watch her graceful nude figure disappear within the long blue robe that matched his own. "How long can this go on? We want each other, we want the security, we're not happy when we're apart. There's no reason to wait."
She sat beside him on the chaise. "You remind me of Peter: he used to think that if he repeated something often enough I'd believe it. Tony, I'm already married and I don't want to marry anyone else."
"But I'm not anyone else. I am specific and unique."
She laughed. "So you are. But you're not about to be my husband. Now we'd better get dressed before Bo gets here. Oh, Tony, did you ask him about Isabel? I want to set that up—"
"No, no, and no. Don't ask me why, my sweet, but he wouldn't give an inch on this one. Forgive me; I truly tried. He gave it two and a half seconds and then nixed it. Said she's a public figure; he wants new people, not someone you've done in your column; he wants the unknown people you've proved yourself on; you should stick with what you do best, especially when it makes our ratings go up. And he's right, you know; the politicos really belong in my part of the show."
Reluctantly, Elizabeth nodded. "I suppose so."
"Do her daughter," he said carelessly. "Young Girl Loses Mommy to New Mexico Legislature."
Elizabeth smiled with him, but her eyes were thoughtful. "Sometimes you have very interesting ideas, Tony. Good lord, look at the time! Come and get dressed; we have so much to do and I want to be home by ten tonight."
"Tonight? You're not staying over?"
"I stayed last night. I told you, Tony, no more than one night a week."
"After three solid weeks in Europe, how can you be satisfied with that? If you'd allow me to set foot in your house in Santa Fe—"
"I won't. I told you that, too. I am not going to sleep with you with my daughter down the hall and my son calling to make sure we're all right." She put her hand on his hair, still damp from their swim. "Breakfast. And I promise I won't leave until after dinner."
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