After that visit, Sybille telephoned often from her home in Washington, urging confidences that Valerie was not ready to give. Her other friends were more interested in the drama of the crash and her struggle through the forest. They visited all during Valerie's second week in the hospital, bringing news of the social life in New York and Washington and Virginia, telling her the parties weren't the same without her.
And later, when Valerie's brief stardom had faded and her days were quieter, flowers and a note arrived from Nicholas Fielding. It had been more than twelve years since they were together at college, and they had seen each other only once since then, but, reading his brief note in
his sprawling handwriting, she remembered with perfect clarity the clasp of their bodies in the creaky bed in his apartment in Palo Alto, and the way he had touched her cheek, just once, when she told hirn she didn't want to see him again.
Last of all, Daniel Lidiigate, Valerie's lawyer, arrived. She was in the sunroom, widi Rosemary. "Terrible diing," Lidiigate said, kissing Valerie with nervous litde pecks. "Knew him all my life; I can't imagine not seeing him on die polo field and in the club, drinking bourbon and telling the rest of us how we should have played the game. I remember when we were kids he'd do the same diing on the Softball field. Did I ever tell you about the time—we were, oh, maybe eleven or twelve—I got so mad at him I took my bat and—"
"Dan." Valerie looked up at him. "You're stalling. Sit down so I can look at you. I don't need stories about Carl; I need to know how much money I have. Not a lot of details, just the general picture."
"Right." He sat in a wicker armchair. "You don't know too much about Carl's affairs."
"I don't knovv^ anything; you know that. He was the executor of my father's estate and he's handled our portfolios. Mother's and mine, ever since. Why else would I ask you.>"
"Right." Lidiigate paused. "Valerie—" He ran a diumb along his nose, pushing up his gold-rimmed glasses; diey promptly slid down again. "There's a problem. Something I'd never have imagined of Carl. The most incredibly imprudent behavior..."
"What does that mean?" Valerie remembered Cariton's anxiety; the way they had rushed back; his distraction the past few weeks. "What is it?"
He wiped his forehead and his nose. "He lost badly, you see, in the stock market. Very badly, I'm afraid."
"How badly? Dan, how badly?"
"About fifteen million dollars. But—"
"Fifteen million dollars?"
Lidiigate cleared his throat. "Right. In the market. But that isn't there's more, you see. We assume he tried to recoup his losses. We don't have any idea how, and of course we can't ask—"
"Dan."
"Right. He borrowed, you see, on everything: your houses, your apartment in New York, your horses and paintings and antiques—he borrowed on all of it and then he converted your bonds to cash. That gave him approximately another thirteen million dollars."
Valerie tried to focus on his earnest brown eyes behind the gold-rimmed glasses. "Everything we had." Her voice was a whisper. "And where is it?"
"Well, you see, that's it. We don't know." Once again his glasses slid down his perspiring nose, and he tore them off, looking at her myo-pically. "There's no trace of it, Valerie. There's no trace of any of it. Everything is gone."
Chapter 2
alerie Ashbrook and Sybille Morgen were in their third year of college when they met Nicholas Fielding. Valerie met him first, standing in line at a bookstore on the Stanford University campus shortly after Christmas. He was a graduate student, older, at t^'enty-five, than most of her friends, tall, thin, raw-looking, wearing a rumpled jacket and mismatched socks, his light-brown hair shaggy from the latest attempt by one of his roommates to cut it. But his strong, angular features and deep voice made him seem more forceful than the other men she knew. There was a tension and spring to his step that made him seem eager to meet whatever lay ahead, as if he found the whole world wonderfully interesting and was open to whatever came into his life. In that crowded bookstore Valerie came into his life, and as soon as they had bought their books they strolled across the campus to sit on the grass in the hazy California sun, and talk.
"I don't know what I want to do," Valerie replied impatiently when he asked the question for the third time. "Do I get a black mark if I don't decide right away?"
He smiled. "I just can't imagine not knowing where I'm going or how I'm going to get there."
"Oh, I'll know one of these days," she said. "I'll have a revelation, or fall in love, or someone will make me an offer I can't refuse, and then I'll know just where I'm going. But why should I be in a hurry when I'm having so much flm along the way?"
Nick smiled again, but his eyes were thoughtful as he gazed at her. She was so lovely he didn't want to look anywhere else. Her tawny hair, heavy and wild, glinted copper in the sunlight, looking as if it had never known a comb. Her almond-shaped eyes beneath dark level brows were auburn or hazel—he would have to look more closely to be sure—and her mouth was wide and warm, the comers faintiy turning down when she was not speaking: a beautiful mouth, but stubborn. Dressed in jeans and a white turtleneck sweater, she was almost as tall as he, and she walked lighdy, like a dancer. She had a look of wealth and privilege in the confident way she held her head, the ease of her walk, as if she knew traffic would stop for her, and the serene assuredness of someone who is aware that people notice her and find much to admire and little to criticize. She gestured as she talked, and shifted her position on the grass; everything about her was vivid and alive, filled with energy and the promise of excitement, and Nick wanted to sit with her this way, with the sun shining and the world relaxed, forever.
"I suppose I could get a new one if there's a problem," she said mischievously.
He started. "A new what?"
"Whatever you've decided I need after that long inspection."
Quickly he looked down, then back at her. "I'm sorry. I was thinking how beautiful you are; you don't need a new anything. I suppose you get tired of hearing that."
"Oh, now and then it's still nice to hear." She smiled with faint mockery and began to stand up. "But there is something I need. I'm starving and it's almost lunchtime. There's a marvelous Itafian place not far from here. Shall we go?"
He hesitated. "I don't eat lunch. But I'll have a cup of coffee with you."
"Everyone eats lunch. Didn't your mother bring you up to eat three good meals a day?"
"I don't eat out," he said evenly. "But I'd like to have a cup of coffee with you."
"Oh. Well, but I'm paying," Valerie said casually. "I invited you, after all."
He shook his head. "I wouldn't let you do that."
"Why not."" She looked at him, smiling, her eyes challenging. "Too untraditional.> Too hard on your manhood .>"
Starded, he hesitated again, then grinned at her. "You've got it. I don't think I'd survive the shock of seeing a woman pick up the check. And I don't think my father would survive if I told him I'd done it."
Her eyes were bright. "And your mother.""
"She'd probably wish she'd been born in your generation, so she could have been more independent."
Valerie laughed. "I'd like to meet your mother. I'd like to buy her lunch. Come on; next time we'll figure out something else, but today I'm treating."
Nick put his hand on her arm to stop her as she turned away, and looked into her eyes. Hazel, he decided, with flecks of auburn; as changeable as a summer sky. They looked at each other for a long moment; then he forced himself to move away. "I'm hungry, too," he said, and they went to lunch.
The next time he made lunch in his apartment, on the second floor of a private home a few blocks from the campus. While Nick worked in the kitchen, Valerie roamed through the rooms, fijrnished with a few pieces of furniture, a scattering of cotton rugs, posters taped to the walls, and dozens of floor pillows. "I can't believe it's so neat. Three men on their own and not even a sock on the floor. It's unreal."
"You'r
e right, it is. We cleaned this morning."
"What did you bribe them with?"
He chuckled. "They did it on their own. They were so amazed that I finally had a girl, they wanted to make sure nothing went wrong."
From the doorway, she watched him heat olive oil in a frying pan with onions and garlic, stir in mushrooms and tomatoes and spices, and then pour it over the pasta. His movements were practiced and deliberate; his hand went directly to what he needed; he moved neady from refrigerator to counter to stove top. He seemed to keep a watch-ftil eye on everything he did, Valerie thought. He was the most careftil man she had ever met.
They sat at a scarred pine table overlooking the backyard and Nick poured Chianti into two jelly glasses. "Welcome," he said, raising his and touching it to Valerie's. "I'm glad you're here."
She sipped the wine. It was harsh and she put down her glass, then quickly picked it up again, hoping he hadn't noticed. If that was all he could afford, she'd drink it. But next time she'd bring the wine.
"Why were your roommates surprised?" she asked as they ate. "No man who cooks like this would be left alone very long; you must know dozens of girls."
He smiled. "A few. I'm better with computers than people. And I don't advertise my cooking."
"It's a good thing; otherwise I'd have to stand in line, and I don't stand in line for anything. Is that what you're studying? Computers?"
"Computer design and programs."
"Computers," she echoed. 'Well, we'll find lots of other things to talk about. I've seen them, but I don't understand them."
"You will someday."
"Don't hold your breath. I'm really not much interested in those kinds of things."
"Those kinds of things are going to change your life. In ten years, by 1984, maybe earlier, you're going to find them everywhere; there isn't any part of your life they won't touch."
"Sex," she said promptly. 'Will that be safe?"
He smiled. "As far as I can tell. But if s probably the only thing, and if you don't understand how computers work or how they're used—"
"Goodness, you're so serious." She shrugged. "I fly in airplanes and drive my car and live in an air-conditioned house, and I can't explain how any of those things work. Come to think of it, I do know how electricity works and I still don't understand it. And then I see a computer screen with all those words coming and going, from nowhere to nowhere, and it's just too much. I'd rather call it magic."
"Terrible idea," said Nick. "I can predict what a computer will do; I can manipulate it and control it. I couldn't do that with magic."
"Of course not; if you could, it wouldn't be magic. What do you do when something wonderfiil and magical happens in your life? You reftise to beUeve in it? Or trust it?"
"I don't even know what that means. It sounds like mythology. I wouldn't bet on it."
"What do you bet on? Science?"
"Every time."
Valerie sighed. "It doesn't sound like a lot of ftm."
"Fun." He repeated it thoughtfiilly. Their eyes met.
"You'll figure it out," she said. "I'll help you."
He grinned at her. "Every engineering student dreams of a moment like this."
"I can arrange an endless supply of them," she said. "I do it with magic. How about starting tomorrow? I'm going riding at a friend's ranch in Los Verdes. Would you like to come?"
"I'm not much of a rider; I'd slow you down."
"You wouldn't let yourself. You like to lead."
His eyebrows rose. "So do you."
"Then we'll ride together; the best way."
He chuckled and refilled their wine glasses. She had barely tasted hers. "Where did you learn to ride?"
"On our farm. My mother wanted horses for atmosphere. She thinks they belong on a farm the way chintz furniture belongs in the farmhouse and velvet drapes in our apartment. But she never learned to ride, so she got the atmosphere and I got the horses."
Nick was looking at her curiously. "I wouldn't have guessed you were from a farm."
She laughed. "I'm from New York. That's where the velvet drapes are. The farm is a weekend place. It's wonderful. Have you been to the Eastern Shore?"
'*No."
She studied him. "Or to any part of Maryland?"
"No. Or the East Coast. Or the Midwest. Or the South. I like the West and I wanted to get to know it, really know it, so I've spent my summers hitching all through it, doing odd jobs and getting to know people."
Valerie thought again of the way he cooked: deliberate and controlled. "Not Europe either?" she asked.
"No. Thafs for when I start earning money. Tell me about your farm. How big is it?"
"About twelve hundred acres, I think; I can't keep track of the parcels my father buys and sells. We have a manager who runs it, and we grow corn and soybeans, and we have a huge vegetable garden; I think we feed half the town of Oxford from it. There are lovely woods with trails that my father had cut years ago so they look natural and quite wild sometimes, and of course a pool, and my mother made a croquet green a few years ago. When she and her friends play they look like a watercolor in a nineteenth-century novel. And the house sits on a rise overlooking Chesapeake Bay, so if we don't sail in one of the regattas we can watch them from the terrace. It's the perfect antidote to New
York. And Paris and Rome, for diat matter; sometimes we come back to the farm from Europe, to unwind before we go to New York. One of these days you'll come for a visit. You'll love it." She watched him frown. "Is something wrong?"
"No. It's just that I'm having culture shock."
There was a brief pause. "No, you're not," she said evenly. "You've been around; you know there's a lot of money in the world, and you know how people spend it. You're just surprised because I have more than you thought I had, and now you have to re-evaluate me." She stood and began to clear the table. "Take your time."
He watched her stack dishes in the sink. '*When did you last do the dishes?"
"Ten years ago," she said calmly. "At camp. But I'm always willing to adapt to a strange culture."
He burst into laughter. Everything is fine, he thought. We have so much to learn from each other and we'll get past our differences and we'll get along. We'll be together. He was surprised at how good that made him feel. He got up to make the coffee. "When did you say we're going riding?" he asked.
Valerie Ashbrook, of Park Avenue and Oxford, Maryland, was bom to silk and sable, private schools, personal maids, and leisurely visits to friends in South American mansions, French chateaux, Spanish casdes, Italian villas and the last few privately owned palaces in England. She did everything early, winning tennis matches, ski races and spelling bees from the time she was eight, putting her horses through intricate paces when she was ten, getting the lead in school plays as a freshman in high school. She was a superb dancer and converted one of the barns on Ashbrook Farm to a ballroom; if a week went by without an invitation to a ball or a square dance she gave her own. She could have excelled in mathematics, but she was too lazy; science bored her because every experiment had to be repeated. She collected art and tried her hand at painting, but soon discovered she had only enough talent to make it a hobby. She loved to read but had no library because she gave her books to others who would enjoy them. She never learned to cook, thinking it a waste of time when she could hire others who did it so well. She hated inexpensive wines. There was always a young man wanting to make love to her.
When she was in high school her mother insisted she balance her parties and good times with volunteer work for organizations in New York and Maryland. So, with her friends who also had been volun-
teered by their mothers, she spent a few hours each week working on balls, auctions and other fund-raisers for everything from the New York Public Library to cancer research. It all came under the name of Good Works, but it also was one long party, and from that came something even better: when she was a high-school senior, she was asked to appear for two minutes on an early-eve
ning newscast on Maryland television to talk about a program to raise funds for a new maritime museum. She was young and lovely and poised beyond her years, and everyone thought she was sensational. Later, when she entered Stanford, society families in San Francisco and Palo Alto, who knew her parents, called her a few times to speak for them when a producer of an early-evening or noon news program offered a minute or two to publicize a good cause.
"I don't do it very often," Valerie told Nick as they arrived at the Palo Alto television station a week after their lunch in his apartment. They had not gone riding after all; at the last minute he had been called in to his part-time job in the engineering department, to fill in for someone else. "I'd love to do more because ifs such a blast, but there's not a lot of free time for good causes on television. Anyway, I don't have time; I'm too busy with school."
"You might manage to find time if they asked you more often," he said.
She laughed. "You're right; I really love doing it, but I'm not going to camp on their doorstep and beg for more. I'm hardly a professional and I'm certainly not going to make it my life's work."
"Why not?" Nick asked.
She looked at him. "I don't know. I haven't thought about it. I haven't thought about any kind of life's work; I told you that. Anyway, nobody's telling me I'm the ideal television personality—good Lord, do you think that would be a compliment or a put-down? I just do favors for fi-iends, or friends of my parents, and what happens, happens. It's all fun and it can't do any harm."
They walked into the studio and she led him to a folding chair at the side of the large, bare room. "You can sit here and watch. We're just taping a short pitch; it won't take long."
He watched her greet the cameraman and a young woman who stood nearby, wearing headphones and carrying a clipboard. Valerie stepped up to a shabbily carpeted platform, where she sat in an armchair turned at an angle to hide a long tear in the fabric. Beside her was a table with a vase of drooping flowers.
"Are there any fresh flowers?" she asked. She ran the cord from a
tiny black microphone under her sweater, then clipped the microphone to her collar. "These ought to be tossed."
A Ruling Passion Page 3
