That was the exciting time, when her Television of Joy, backed up by an enormous advertising campaign, was being written about in newspapers and magazines. Her audience grew, and the ratings climbed, advertisers clamored to be part of what they thought was the new wave of television programming, and cable operators signed up by the dozens to carry the EBN package. Sybille was busier than she ever had been; her name was known; her picture, taken by a well-known photographer of models and society women, appeared in articles in the local and national press and in the glossy pages of Town and Country, Washington Dossier and Vogue. Often there was also a photo of Enderby, seated at a desk, although, when Sybille was asked about him, she could not force herself to lie, and so she told the truth: that he did nothing anymore; she was completely alone in carrying the burden of EBN and its Television of Joy. She was also alone in becoming part of the Washington social scene, but she managed that bravely, always enlisting someone at EBN to be her escort to the whirl of dinners and cocktail parties that included government officials, con-
gressmen, lobbyists, bankers, lawyers and newspaper and television figures: a glittering array that made her feel, at last, part of the heights she had eyed for so long.
And then it ended. Her ratings began to sink, slowly, then more precipitously, as viewers deserted her for the ordinary programming they had watched before she came along. Bewildered, Sybille began to make changes: she rearranged the schedule, hired new anchors, bought a soap opera set in Palm Beach, a women's wrestling show, and a new set of X-rated films, and increased her advertising. Nothing helped. Movies, especially Westerns and pornography, held their ratings, but the rest of the schedule soon was a desert. Fewer articles were written about her, and the ones that did appear were critical. And with that, her social life dried up. There was nothing that the network brought her anymore.
Why keep it? she thought as she led the mourners from the cemetery and settled back in her limousine for the short ride to her apartment. She stared unseeing at the streets of Georgetown. What did she care about a network Enderby had bought? She'd have all his money; she didn't need to work; and, anyway, she could get a fortune for EBN. She'd find a buyer and get out of Washington—a horrible place; she'd always known it would be; all wrapped up in itself and its own sense of importance—and go somewhere and—
And what? What would she do?
The limousine stopped at the entrance to her building in the Watergate, ril think about it tomorrow. Fll think ofsomethin£f. I can afford to do anythin£f I want.
Everyone came to her apartment and drank coffee and Scotch and martinis, and devoured the feast catered by Ridgewell's. Clusters of people she saw at work every day stood about, crowding her rooms as they had not been in the entire time she and Enderby had lived there, talking about ratings, politics, sports, and the price of housing. No one talked about Enderby.
Valerie stood to one side, drinking sherry and watching Dominus move through the rooms as if building a constituency. When he reached her, she asked about Lily Grace. "I sent her home," he said. "She was chilled and emotionally drained by the funeral; I made her apologies to Sybille." His protruding eyes were fixed on her. "You are an extraordinarily beautiful woman; I hope you guard against letting that warp your life."
Valerie's eyebrows rose; then she broke into laughter. "Thank you. That's the most graceful compliment anyone has ever given me."
"It was not a compliment. It was a warning."
She was still smiling. "But half of it sounded like praise. Do you always have a knife handy when you say something kind?"
He frowned. "Meaning what.>"
"Oh, the kind of things you said about Quentin at the cemetery. You said he was a superb entrepreneur who built a major independent station in the crudest city in the world, and then you said his arrogance had driven him to overreach himself so that he knew only un-happiness and low ratings."
Dominus stared at her. "Those were my exact words."
Valerie nodded. "And you did it over and over again. Every time you praised him you'd stop and take a breath, and then stick in the knife. Is Lily the only one who says something kind without contradicting it in the next minute?"
"I do that? I stop and take a breath?"
"Every time. As if you're getting ready to lunge."
"That is a wicked thing to say. You have beauty and intelligence"— he took a breath—"but you are too proud; you will suffer loneliness and terrors because of it."
Valerie gazed at him in silence, a small smile on her lips, and in a moment he scowled deeply.
"The world is not a pretty place. You should be pleased that I find anything at all to praise in you. There are many people in whom I find nothing, though I wresde with myself, attempting to find good in them. There are people even God could not find good in, though He almost never takes the time to look for it; He directs those of us on earth to do it for Him."
Valerie gave a small laugh again. "Even God gets mixed reviews. You must be very alone, judging a world where everyone is flawed, without God to turn to."
"I do not judge; I observe and comment, no more. And of course I turn to God; the two of us share the burden of a troubled world. He could not do it without me and I would have a much more difficult time without Him."
Valerie began to laugh, but there was no responsive smile in Dominus; he was absolutely serious. "Tell me about Lily," she said. 'Ts she your daughter?"
"In spirit only. I have cared for her for years, since she was a girl. Lily is absolutely pure and sees only purity in others."
"And she believed what she said about Quentin."
"Of course. Lily cannot lie."
'Was she right? Did he know he was a good person before he died?"
"No. But Lily believed he did. Lily always believes the best of everyone. Her charm—perhaps her genius—is that she convinces others that she's right about them and thus makes them feel good. And then, of course, they give more money, which allows us to continue our work." He saw Valerie's curious look. "How can we bring our message to the needy, if our own needs stand in the way? We satisfy ourselves so we can satisfy others. We will soon organize a church in New Jersey, in a house I have bought with Quentin's help. I will allow Lily to preach there occasionally; mostly she will visit the sick and comfort the bereaved. When we are ready, you will come and listen to us—yes?— and I am confident that you too will give us money, for you will want us to carry on. But you have not talked about yourself at all." He glanced at her wedding band and the diamond that flashed beside it. "Do you and your husband live in Washington?"
"No, in Middleburg."
"Ah, then you have horses. And children?"
She smiled. "Only horses."
"And your husband— You must forgive me, I don't recall your name. There were so many people when Sybille introduced us at the cemetery..."
'Valerie SterHng."
"Sterling?" Sybille came up to them, repeating the name. "I didn't know you'd married again."
"A few months ago. Why don't you come out for a few days, Sybille? It must be hard to be here alone."
"It's terrible. I keep looking for Quentin, to tell him about something at the office or to watch a program together..." Sybille's back was to Dominus as she edged him aside, only Valerie saw his scornful look. "Come out where?"
"Middleburg. Sterling Farms. Ifs a wonderful place that Carl's father built. We have plenty of room; you could stay as long as you like." She took Sybille's hand. "Sybille, I'm so sorry about Quentin. I remember when you were married, you said he was hin to be with and he took care of you, but I think you must have been just as good for him. Do visit Carl and me; let me know when you want to come." She put down her glass. "I have to get back; we're flying to the Adiron-dacks early tomorrow morning; Carl has a sudden urge for cross-country skiing."
"Flying? You have a plane?"
"Yes. We'll be—"
"And a house there? In the mountains?"
'Tes. We'll be back in a we
ek; I'll call you. Maybe you'll come for Christmas; we'll have a houseful—some friends of Carl's, and my mother—and we'd love to have you join us." She looked past Sybille at Dominus, who hovered where Sybille had slowly pushed him, his back against an Oriental table. "Good luck with your church. Please tell Lily I thought she was very fine today."
"I'll help you find your coat," Sybille said, and walked with Valerie toward the foyer. The rooms were heavy with the scent of huge flower arrangements, most of them ordered by Sybille from Bill Dove. A smaller one of gracefully bowed sprays of pale orchids caught Valerie's eye. "Whoever sent that understands grief," she said.
"He understands me" Sybille replied, and stopped beside the flowers. Valerie had no choice but to look more closely at them, and so she saw the card: Our sympathies; we hope to see you soon. Love, Chad and Nick.
She stood still for a moment, one finger barely touching a delicate petal, then she turned and walked on, with Sybille just behind. Sybille waited, but Valerie said nothing. In the foyer, as the attendant found her fur coat, the two women looked at each other. Sybille thought she saw a shadow of contempt in Valerie's eyes, and inwardly she brisded. Who did she think she was, coming here to lord it over the widow, with her talk of a rich husband with his own plane, and a house in the Adirondacks, and horses, and a huge spread in Middleburg... Middleburg! The town Sybille had chosen for herself.
Wherever she turned, Valerie was there, a few steps ahead. Was there anyplace in the world where she could be first, where Valerie would be consumed by eny of her, where Valerie would suffer because of her, as she had suffered because of Valerie?
"Let me know if I can do anything," Valerie said.
Sybille nodded briefly. "Thank you for coming."
She closed the door and stood against it after Valerie left. I have to do something. Something new. I haven't gotten anywhere. Quentin didn't do anything for me; all he did was saddle me with a second-rate network and his stupid ideas about joy and upbeat programs that no one wants to watch. I'll get rid of it; sell it as fast as I can. Then I'll be free of everything and my life can really begin.
A waiter approached with a tray of drinks, and she took a cognac. He did do one thin^ for me. He left me his millions. She wondered how many, exactly. He had been secretive about that.
Her lawyer was in the living room and she went to find him. "How much did he have, Sam?" she asked as soon as she had led him to the library. "I don't know exactly."
Samuel Breeph gave her a quick look. "Why don't we wait till tomorrow, when we read the will?"
"Because I want to know now. My God, Sam, all you do is plod. I can't imagine why Quentin kept you around. I want to know how much he was worth and you'll tell me this minute or it's the last time you'll work for me or my network."
Breeph put down the plate he had been carrying when Sybille cornered him. "Quentin left you one million dollars," he said precisely, almost with pleasure. "Also your apartments here and in New York, and the Enderby Broadcast Network. Apparendy you had drained much of his money and incurred heavy debts as president of the network, but he was confident you could manage; he said you had done very well without much money before you met him. He left five million dollars to Rudy Dominus."
"Five million — '^ She stared at him. "You're crazy. It's a he."
He shook his head.
"He wouldn't do that to me." Dizzy with rage, she focused on his small, pursed mouth. "He'd never do that to me! He loved me!"
Breeph shrugged. "I don't know anything about that; he didn't mention it. I have his will, written four months ago, on his eighty-third birthday. Lily had baked him a cake. You were at a meeting, in New York, I believe."
Sybille's fingers curled like claws. "ITou fuckin£i —^^^The loud sounds of conversation in the living room recalled her, and she clamped her mouth shut. She swayed; she was dizzy and thought she was going to throw up. "Get out," she said hoarsely. "Get out of here. Get out."
He scurried from the room. As soon as the door closed behind him, Sybille crumpled to the floor, slamming her fist against the Oriental rug. "Bastard," she whispered. "After all I did for you, all the crap I took from you, letting you take credit for my successes, letting you have me, night after night, even though I hated it, usirig me... bastard, bastard, bastard..."
She lay there as the sky grew dark and, beyond the closed door, her guests, looking around for her in some conftision, finally left, followed by the caterer and his staff". Then, stiffly, she stood up in the dark room. She looked about until her glance reached the telephone. Nick would never do anything like that to me. He^d want to help me. He always
was the only one who understood me. I shouldn^t have married Quentin; Nick and I would have been back together by nave if I hadn't married Quentin.
She sat at Quentin's desk and turned on his lamp and, from memory, dialed Nick's number at home.
"Mother called," Chad said when Nick got home later that afternoon. They sat on a leather couch in the book-lined study where the day's mail was piled on Nick's desk. "She wants to talk to you. It sounded like she was crying."
"Quentin's funeral was today; she probably wants a friendly voice. I'll call after dinner. What else happened today?"
"She said he robbed her of everything."
'Who?"
"Quentin. She said he was a bastard and she shouldn't have married him and she—" He stopped.
"She what?"
"She should have stayed with you."
Nick shook his head. "It sounds like she dumped an awftil lot on you, all at once." He looked closely at Chad. "What did you think of what she said?"
There was a pause. "Nothing."
"I think you probably thought something. But we won't talk about it if you don't want to."
Chad scuffed his foot on the carpet, looking intendy at his shoe. "I thought it sounded okay. You know, then we would've been like other people and have a whole family."
Nick nodded. "And what else?"
"And I thought... well, you could still do it. If Mother wants it and... but I guess you don't."
"No," Nick said quietly. "I don't. And I don't think your mother wants it, either. I think she's feeling sad and alone, because Quentin died, but she knows we can't live together."
"But you did once and it was okay—you said you loved each other when you got married—and you could just pretend it was like it was then, and you could have another baby, and then I'd have a brother or sister, and a real mother too. And we'd all be together."
Nick put his arm along the back of the couch, behind Chad. "We might be able to do that, if we were other people." He kept his voice relaxed. Chad had never asked him about marrying Sybille again, perhaps because of Quentin, perhaps because he was afraid of a reftisal
that would crush a dream he had clutched for most of his seven years. It's time to crush it, Nick thought, then immediately thought, as he always did when he knew something would cause Chad pain, that it couid wait. Why do it now.> Let him have his dream. If it made his life easier, why destroy it?
Because, even at seven, my son will live with the truth, not a bunch of pretty lies. His mother lives with lies; he won^t.
He put his feet up on the coffee table and settled back, his arm coming down naturally to embrace Chad's shoulders. "There are a lot of differences between your mother and me, in the way we think about love and family and work, and the way we think about you. We were always different, from the time we met, but we thought that wasn't important, or maybe each of us thought we could make the other one act the way we wanted. Which is pretty silly, when you think about it; why would somebody who'd been one way for twenty-one or twenty-five years, and probably thought that was an okay way to be, suddenly switch over and be different?" He paused to let Chad think about it. "That doesn't mean that one of us has a good way to be and the other a bad way; it just means we have different ways. When we were married, it was like trying to attach one of your Lego pieces to one of your toy cars; it wouldn't wor
k, because they aren't made to go together. They're fine when they're apart, but not when they're together."
"You could use some wire," Chad said after a moment, "and tie the Lego piece to the car."
Nick ached for his son's tenacity, and the plea in his voice. "It might work," he replied, "until the car hit some rough spots. Thafs what happens to people. They try to tie things together and sometimes it works pretty well, but when something rough happens that makes them nervous or worried or afraid, then the ties they've used tend to pull apart. It's not—"
"They could make new ones."
"They try that. But usually they pull apart, too. It's not that they aren't trying, Chad, ifs just that they have a lot of things to worry about at once, and the things that aren't good and solid from the beginning are the ones that can't weather the storms."
"What storms?"
"That's a way of saying bad times. Like arguing about things, or worrying about a job or money or whether people like your work."
"Or whether they'll buy your computers."
"You've got it. But it isn't only when there are problems, Chad; sometimes two people just can't live together, whatever happens. They
can try and try to share a life, and be kind to each other, and be happy, but they just can't do it. Your mother and I are like that. And if we can't live together in a good, happy way, if s better for all three of us if we live apart."
Chad shifted within Nick's embrace, as if struggling beneath a weight. His head was down and one hand plucked rhythmically at his pants leg. 'Tou did once," he said stubbornly.
"We tried once. We couldn't do it. We can't do everything we want, Chad, even if we try."
Chad's fingers kept plucking. "So you don't think you could do it."
"I'm sure we can't, Chad."
He looked up then, his face working, tears in his eyes. "Ever?"
"Ever."
Chad looked away, swallowing hard, and then there was a long silence. They sat together, close, touching, but separate: Nick could not enter Chad's thoughts. He let him deal with his own pain, hoping his son would come back to him if the pain grew too strong to bear alone.
A Ruling Passion Page 30
