"I guess." Airily, Holly said, "All lovers have problems, you know; you and Daddy waited twenty years to have yours, but you really got a bundle when you did. I mean, you never talked before, and you don't now, very much, but the two of you certainly aren't a romantic novel, are you?"
Elizabeth's eyes were troubled and she tilted her head, studying her daughter. That wasn't the kind of phrase Holly used; she'd picked it up somewhere. "Who's the lucky man?" she asked. "Is he in the school musical with you?"
Holly gave a wild laugh. "Right. We make beautiful music together."
There was a long silence. Trying to say the right thing, Elizabeth asked casually, "Well, does he have a name or do I have to wait to read it in the program?"
"That's what I mean! You keep asking questions! You don't leave me alone! I tell you one thing about me, I try to confide in you, but you just keep pushing for more. I don't ask you how you feel about Daddy and Nicole, do I?" At the look on her mother's face, Holly felt sick and said in a rush, "I'm sorry; I'm sorry. I don't really know anything; it's just that I saw her picture on his desk and he gave me the usual story about a good friend, but he told me about ten times that she wouldn't be the hostess at my graduation party, and I shouldn't think about her, she's just a good friend . . . Mother, don't pay any attention to me; I don't mean half the things I say; just go to your meeting and if you meet a tall beautiful man in New York and have a good time with him I won't ask any questions and I'd appreciate it if you don't ask me any, either."
And without waiting for an answer, she left the room.
/ can V go to New York. I can't go anywhere until I know what I can do for Holly.
"Mother?" Holly was in the doorway. "I apologize; I didn't mean to get hysterical. Please don't worry about me; I'm fine; I just have a lot on my mind. I can't go to New York, but thank you for asking me. I'd like to, next time, if that's all right."
She was so calm, and so lovely, even with reddened eyes, that Elizabeth felt better. "If you're sure . . . I'm afraid this is one meeting I really shouldn't miss."
"I'm sure." She came to Elizabeth and put her head on her shoulder, like a little girl, though they were the same height. "I'm all right, really. Just a little confused. But everybody gets that way, you know. At least some of the time."
"Yes," said Elizabeth, "I know." She held her daughter close until Holly moved away. Then, snapping shut her overnight bag, she said, "I'll be gone tomorrow and tomorrow night; back early Saturday morning. We'll have the weekend together. All right?"
"Fine." Holly brushed her mother's cheek with her lips. "Shall I drive you to Albuquerque?"
"No, Saul offered. He wants to talk to the editor of the Daily News, about a story they published. But I might call you to meet me on Saturday. Oh, one thing; I've been trying to reach your father; I've left messages, but he hasn't called. Do you know where he is?"
After a moment, reluctantly, Holly said, "I think he's sailing off the Florida Keys."
"Oh. I see." And both of them knew it was not necessary to ask with whom.
Paul Markham had never fired anyone. It had been done to him once, and he never forgot the humiliation and helplessness he'd felt as he left, sneaking out after everyone had gone home to avoid facing anyone. He'd vowed then that he would one day own his company, be his own boss, and never fire anyone.
Elizabeth knew that; he had told her one night at dinner in the Russian Tea Room, confessing his weaknesses while a waiter deftly slit open their chicken Kiev, letting melted butter flow onto the plate. So she was not surprised that he was a silent observer at the meeting of the Executive Committee of Markham Features, looking grimly at his sharpened pencils while his senior vice-president did the talking.
"In a nutshell, we've weighed your enormous popularity against the possibility of lawsuits. You're the apple of our readers' eyes, but local editors are scared out of their gourd; the minute the AP spread the Artner story all over the country they were in a stew; they never thought there was anything fishy about your column; now all they think about is, have they been selling tainted stuff when they thought they were buying prime material they could count on? We've tried buttering them up, it won't work; their meat and potatoes is readers' trust; if they lost that, they lose everything. We're not canceling your column, Elizabeth, but we're putting a hold on it until you've cleared your name. There are vultures out there who'll milk a story for all it's worth and you can't duck it; you have to be aggressive. We'll help all we can—we do have confidence in you—and if you need an investigator, for instance, to prove you've been villified, we'll find one for you and share his fee. None of us relishes the idea of losing you, but you must understand our position.
Please let us know your plans, and what we can do, so that everyone gets his—and her—just desserts."
Markham and the others chimed in, expressing their regrets, hoping Elizabeth would be able to clear everything up in a short time, but it was not a discussion: they'd made up their minds. And half an hour later, Elizabeth was out of the building, walking past Rockefeller Center.
Automatically, she began thinking ahead to the interviews she had scheduled for the rest of the day. And then it struck her: what would she do with them? All she had left was one column a week, for the Chieftain and the Sun, Her three-times-a-week column in four hundred papers had been canceled—no, put on hold, whatever that meant, exactly—by someone who could barely say a sentence without talking about food.
No television show, no syndicated column. And not much hope of new ones: the offers of television shows she was receiving would surely be withdrawn for the same reason Markham's food-loving vice-president had put her on hold. She felt empty. When would she get angry? Maybe she'd used up all her anger. When would she be depressed? Whenever it really sank in. When would she be worried about the future? Not for a while: she'd put a good bit of money away and maybe she'd finally get the time to put together a book of "Private Affairs"—if anyone would publish it as long as she was suspected of using her column to line her pockets.
I think I'd better find Cal Artner and string him up by his ankles until he confesses he lied.
Find Cal Artner? Find his boss, first. She stopped at a pay telephone near Central Park and called Matt. "I'm expecting him to call in, Mrs. Lovell," his secretary said.
"Doesn't he have a telephone on that boat?" Elizabeth demanded, then quickly said, "Never mind. Just tell him to call me at home tomorrow." She hung up, staring at the graffiti-covered walls of the telephone booth. You can't tell the world you know your husband is so busy sailing with another woman he doesn 't get your messages.
She walked into the park; it was a warm day and she sat on a flat rock outcropping in the sun, watching women pushing baby carriages, old men playing chess on park benches, and a young couple throwing a Frisbee for an ecstatic dog to catch and return to them. I'm going home now, she thought. I don't want to be here; I want to be home. There was no reason to stay: she'd have to leave the Mayfair Regent in any case, since the suite was kept by Markham Features, and she was sure anyone on hold with them wouldn't be welcome in their suite.
She was beginning to feel angry, at Matt on his boat, at Markham and its suite. Good, she thought. As long as I can get angry, I'm alive. She
took a cab to her hotel to pack her small bag and was at LaGuardia within an hour.
Then she waited for a plane to Albuquerque. She bought a paperback and used her Markham Features membership card one last time to gain admittance to the travelers' club where she sank into an armchair with a glass of sherry and her book. A telephone was at her elbow, but there was no one she wanted to call. The only person she might have confided in was Matt—and he had done this to her.
Enough of that, she told herself, and looked purposefully at the page before her. She read for two hours. Later, she could not remember the name of the book or a word in it.
She set her watch back two hours as her plane landed at Albuquerque. Two o'clock; she'd rent a car
and be home before four. And once she was beyond the town and driving through the desert, she felt calmer. She rolled down her window to breathe the sage-scented air, and drove more slowly, feeling herself relax, surrounded by desert and brush, the endless sky, misty purple mountains on the horizon, the solitary call of a jay. Home. Everything will be all right. Saul will find out who Artner works for; we'll get him to write a retraction; Paul will tell me I have my papers back again; Polly Perritt will be stalking someone else; I'll find a way to talk to Matt and to forget him. Everything will be fine.
And I can use a rest. I'll call this a vacation. Why not?
She was almost smiling by the time she reached her house, after repeating Everything will be fine in a rhythm that matched her tires as she got closer to Santa Fe. The smile faded when she pulled into her driveway and found a car already there—a rented one, she saw—and then she felt a lurch within her as she saw that it had been rented at the municipal airport.
She flung herself from the car and ran to the house, turning her key in the lock and pushing open the front door in one motion. She was down the hall and standing in the doorway of Holly's room before either Holly or Tony had a chance to move.
Tony, tieless, shoeless, his shirt unbuttoned to his waist, stood behind Holly, his hands around her, holding her breasts, his mouth on the back of her neck. Holly was motionless. Wearing a plaid skirt and white blouse that made her look like a schoolgirl, she stood with her arms hanging at her sides, her head down, her long ash-blond hair falling like a curtain around her face. "Of course it's all right," Tony was murmuring urgently. "Stop worrying, you must come, I'll take care of—"
Then they heard Elizabeth's heels on the tile floor, and sprang apart.
And that was when Elizabeth saw the open suitcase on the bed, with Holly's clothes folded inside it.
Oh, Matt, my God, what have we done to our family?
They were all frozen; it seemed they did not even breathe. Tony's eyes darted around the room. "Listen—" he began.
"Get out." Elizabeth's voice sliced across Tony's soft flesh. "Get out of this house."
"Elizabeth, you don't under—"
"I told you to get out!"
"But it was you I wanted! You! The whole time—!"
Holly made a whimpering sound. "You said you wanted me! You promised to put me on your show."
Elizabeth burned; she wanted to strike out, to pound her fist into Tony's face. But she kept her hands clenched, the nails biting her palms. She looked at her daughter's wide, bewildered eyes and tremulous mouth, and she was consumed by an inferno of rage at the man who stood there, his face working as he tried to find the right expression. "He doesn't have a show," she said contemptuously. "It was taken away from him. He has nothing to promise."
"You're lying! You fucking bitch, nobody knows that—!"
"Tony!" Holly cried, looking at him for the first time.
"Get out!" Elizabeth came into the room and stood beside Holly. "Get out of this house and out of town, and if you ever come near us again I swear to God, Tony, I'll kill you."
He took a step back from her fury, staring at her, trying to talk. His breezy handsomeness was gone, his face was fleshy and slack, his mouth sagged at one corner. "How did you know about—"
"Did you hear me?"
His hands were making little clutching movements; his head wagged slowly as he looked around the floor. "I do have a show," he muttered. "I'm working it out. . . ." He sat on the edge of a chair and picked up one of his shoes.
"Get out of that chair! You despicable— creature" —she spat it out— "you'll never touch anything in this house again! I'm warning you; I'm telling you for the last time . . . get out of my house!"
Her voice and face finally terrified him. He scuttled around her, like a crab. His stockinged feet slipped on the smooth tile floor and he grabbed at furniture as he went. Holding the doorjamb, he swung himself through the doorway, his other hand still making those clutching motions, as if grasping at something in the room. "I do have a show," he said defiantly.
"You'll be sorry; you'll wish you'd been nicer to me—" He looked at Elizabeth wildly and then he was gone.
Elizabeth heard the front door open and slam shut, but she stood without moving until, a moment later, she heard a car engine starting up, wheels skidding on gravel, and then silence.
Holly's shoulders were shaking; she had covered her face with her hands. Elizabeth put her arms around her and held her as tightly as she could. "Holly, dear. Dearest Holly. . . ."
Holly stood rigidly within her mother's tight embrace. "I'm not a baby! You didn't have to come in here and ... I didn't need to be . . . rescued from the big bad—"
"I thought you did." Elizabeth's throat was tight; her stomach was knotted with anger and fear for what might have happened. "I don't think you're a baby—I don't, Holly; I think you're a woman, and a fine, strong one. Sit down with me and we'll talk." Holly shook her head. Elizabeth sighed, staying where she was, holding one arm around her daughter's unyielding shoulders. Where do I start? Vm not going to come out of this covered with glory, the way mothers would like to: wise, calm, pure. Oh, Holly, forgive me.
She took a long breath, and quietly, almost casually, asked, "When did this start?"
"When you were in San Francisco."
"Three weeks ago. That was when you were crying when I called?"
"And you sent Heather to spy on me!"
"Holly, why were you crying?"
"A lot was happening! I was being emotional. . . ."
"You sounded unhappy to me."
"I was happy! It was the most wonderful evening! We talked and talked and he asked me all my dreams and he listened to me sing and said it almost made him cry. . . . And I loved him! I still do! And he loves me!"
"You think so? After what he said—about me?"
Holly closed her eyes. "He probably said that so you wouldn't be mad and make him leave . . . or . . . something. He says things—sometimes—that he doesn't mean. ..."
"He says a lot he doesn't mean. The trick with Tony is to sort out the acting from the truth."
"That's not fair! I know he was telling the truth! He said such wonderful things ... he told me my loveliness was . . . bewitching . . . and he said I made his days bright—"
"And his nights even brighter."
Holly flung herself from her mother's arms. Her face was deeply flushed. "How did you know that?"
"Because he said the same thing to me," Elizabeth said bluntly. "I suppose he also told you you're an exquisite, exciting—"
"—passionate woman," Holly finished, looking at the door. She put her head up and stared accusingly at her mother. "You went to bed with him! How can you even talk to me? You betrayed Daddy—!"
"Now just a—"
"I thought you probably did, but I wasn't sure, and then you never stayed in Los Angeles more than one night so I decided you couldn't be. Because I knew if it was me I couldn't just be with him one night a week if he made love to me . . . and then when he told me how I'd changed his life I was sure he never made love to you because you're much more beautiful than I am, and much more sophisticated and fascinating, and he'd never look at me if the two of you ... I don't believe you! He never said all those things to you!"
"He probably says them to all his women," Elizabeth said. "And each time he probably believes he means it, or at least most of it."
Holly stood in the middle of the room, her body as rigid as when Elizabeth had first arrived. Suddenly she went limp and began to cry, shaking silently, then breaking into great gulping sobs that wracked her slender body. "Oh, Mommy!" She put her arms around Elizabeth's waist and rested her forehead on Elizabeth's shoulder. "I'm glad you're here; I'm so glad I didn't. ..." The words came jerkily, between her sobs. "I wanted you ... but I didn't ... I got in your bed one night when you were gone ... but that wasn't what I. . - ." She drew a ragged breath. "/ didn 7 know what I wanted!"
Elizabeth put her arms arou
nd her. "Hush, sweetheart. My sweet Holly, I know it hurts. ..." Her murderous rage came back— that bastard! —but she pushed it away. "It will be all right, Holly; everything will be all right." She led her to a deep armchair and cradled her grown daughter on her lap. "We'll talk about it in a few minutes. Not now. Give yourself a little time."
"No, I want to. I have to!" Holly wiped her nose with the back of her hand. "I don't know why I'm crying. . . ."
Elizabeth set a box of tissues in Holly's lap. "Use them up."
Holly pulled out a handful and held them to her eyes. A long sigh shuddered through her. "You're not mad at me?"
"I couldn't be mad at you. I love you. And we both fell for the same line." Holly shuddered again. Elizabeth kissed her forehead and held her slender form, remembering holding her as a baby, thinking how fragile
and strong she was, and what a remarkable thing Elizabeth Lovell had done to have such an amazingly perfect daughter. She ran her hand over Holly's head and the silken hair that looked exactly like her own when she was just Holly's age—and sleeping with Tony Rourke. "Let me tell you about Tony," she said, and told Holly the whole story, beginning with that long-ago summer, when she was almost eighteen.
"He was six years older than I, so sure of himself—at least he acted that way—and he made me feel grown up and free. Grandma and Grandpa were so afraid of taking risks—they were always making lists and schedules, worrying about all the things that could go wrong, planning far ahead—and then Tony came along and swooped me up and it was like a roller coaster ride: fast, exciting, dangerous, never planned, never scheduled, different from anything in my whole life. Of course there was more: I was crazy about him and I also felt tied to him because he'd taught me what it meant to be sensual, what kinds of feelings I could have, and what to do with them, and I thought he was the only one I could ever be with, in that way. . . ."
Private affairs : a novel Page 56
