A Fierce Radiance

by Lauren Belfer

  The guests began to arrive, and just to make the party even more…unusual than Claire had imagined possible, they were in costume. Imperial Chinese-inspired costumes, ornately beaded and brocaded, with elaborate headgear to match for both men and women.

  “All right, Seth, here we go,” Claire said to the young man who stood beside her, clutching a clipboard. Tonight she had an assistant helping her with the equipment and captions. His most important job was to make certain that every shot was documented, every name spelled correctly. Seth Wiley was tall and thin, with an almost concave chest, which made him appear shy. He had a boyish, questioning look. His bow tie was askew. Seth was a recent graduate of Yale, Mr. Luce’s alma mater, and a favored staff recruitment center. “I want you to stand near Mrs. Luce every ten minutes or so, just quietly, not bothering her, in case she has special instructions for us.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Moving around the ballroom as it grew crowded, Claire felt the raw power of the gathering. Rockefeller, Willkie, Baruch, Lamont—the evening overflowed with national leadership, financial, industrial, and political. And what did these leaders spend their time doing at the party? They continually glanced over shoulders, seeking even more influential partners for conversation. They competed in their enthusiastic support for the suffering masses of China by tossing darts at balloons.

  Looking across the room, Claire had to smile when she saw Seth hovering beside Mrs. Luce. The boss’s wife appeared to like him, whispering in his ear. Seth took to his job heartily, making notes and hurrying back to Claire. His sincerity and eagerness were appealing.

  On a night like this, you felt the influence the Luces wielded. The guests were more than willing to appear ridiculous in their Chinese costumes if their dear friend Harry and his wife demanded it. He greeted their fawning in his usual way, with a pointed question or two, then an abrupt dismissal. People were familiar with his rudeness and ignored it. If he liked you, he might put you on the cover of one of his magazines. Run a feature or two or three about you or your company. Fortune might embrace you. He might make you Time’s Man of the Year. Claire had heard through the rumor mill that huge amounts of money had been raised for United China Relief in Hollywood from producers and actors who were dependent on the acres of free publicity that Life’s entertainment stories provided.

  Halfway through the evening, Claire stood at the side of the ballroom, taking a break and observing the crowd. Seth had excused himself for the men’s room.

  “Looks like you’re doing a good job. Under tough circumstances.” Henry Luce stood beside her, dressed in white tie rather than Chinese robes, a sensible choice.

  “Thank you. I agree.”

  To this, he actually laughed.

  “Your wife is looking very beautiful, Mr. Luce.”

  “Thank you. I agree.”

  She hadn’t seen him since their meeting in his office, when she’d pushed him to cover penicillin development. “Looks like this party is a success.”

  “Yes. John D. Rockefeller the Third is here. Wendell Willkie, Bernard Baruch…” He rattled off the list with a boy’s wonder, as if he himself weren’t among the famous names. As if they came here—not because of the power of his magazines—but strictly out of sympathy for China, the beloved, lost land where his missionary parents had raised him.

  “I’m sure you’ve raised a good deal of money for China tonight.”

  “No matter how much we raise, the need is greater still. The horrors faced by the Chinese people…” He proceeded to lecture her on the starving people of China and on Generalissimo and Madame Chiang Kai-shek as their only hope. He put his faith in the Christian Chiangs to defeat China’s Japanese occupiers and to resist the atheist Communist insurgents. Apparently he ignored the darkly whispered reports of the Chiangs’ corruption.

  “You must miss your homeland,” Claire said.

  Luce did not reply. He was studying the crowd, and when he spoke again, he didn’t look at her. “I haven’t forgotten our conversation.”

  She waited for him to say more.

  “I’m moving forward.”

  She took this as an acknowledgment that he’d transformed her idea into his idea.

  “I’m considering the potential.”

  “Thank you.”

  “No need to say thank you. I’m not doing it for you.”

  He was known to speak this way. Was he joking? She couldn’t tell.

  “Of course not.”

  Seth joined them.

  “Who are you?” Luce asked.

  Seth appeared bewildered.

  “What do you want?”

  Undoubtedly recognizing Mr. Luce, Seth didn’t know how to respond.

  “The lady and I are talking.”

  Claire stepped in. “Seth, I don’t believe you’ve been introduced to our editor. Mr. Luce, this is Seth Wiley, who recently joined our staff. A Yale graduate. He’s doing a fine job tonight.”

  “Good to meet you, sir.” Seth bowed, the Asian influence seeming to have rubbed off on him. Mr. Luce did not offer his hand to the new recruit. They had reached an impasse. Claire needed to resume work anyway.

  “I think I’ll go out on the terrace,” she said. “I’d like to get some shots from the outside looking in.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Luce said. “Carry your camera bag.”

  “Thank you.” This was indeed an honor. To Claire’s knowledge, only Margaret Bourke-White had been so recognized.

  With a triumphant look at poor Seth, Mr. Luce picked up the bag and strode across the room, parting the crowd. Claire followed, Seth trying to keep up. She sensed the crowd filling in and Seth being left behind.

  Outside, the terrace was peaceful and cool after the packed crowd inside. The gardens were filled with the flowers of early spring, crocuses, daffodils, forsythia. She caught the scent of hyacinth on the breeze. A Chinese junk had moored at the Club’s dock on the far side of the East River Drive. Only a few cars traversed the still-incomplete roadway. Claire turned and peered into the ballroom through the wide French doors. This was a perfect shot, romantic and intriguing. The camera on its tripod took the position of the magazine reader at home, staring through an arched doorway into a warm scene of formal evening clothes, dancing, and enchantment.

  “Mr. Luce, you see how beautiful this shot is?”

  “Beautiful? How?”

  “Because of the composition. You see, the ballroom framed by the arched doorway? The dancers looking dazzling and alluring? The costumes romantic and mysterious?”

  He looked through the camera. “I do see it.” He sounded amazed. “It’s a good shot,” he added gruffly, a puzzled expression on his face, as if he were struggling for words that would be more poetic and would express better, or more exactly, what he meant. “I can see it. A good shot,” he repeated, finally.

  “Glad to see someone’s earning her salary tonight.” Mrs. Luce swept onto the terrace. “Harry, my dear, you mustn’t let your employees monopolize your time with their problems. Your guests are waiting for you.” She took her husband’s arm. He allowed himself to be led away. Claire wondered if he ever regretted his headlong pursuit of this woman, or regretted the sorrow he must have caused his family. As she led her husband inside, Mrs. Luce managed to turn and whisper to Claire with a measure of privacy, “If you’re searching for a man, Claire Shipley, I suggest you don’t do it on Life’s time.”

  Well, there was a line worth repeating, one that sounded like it’d come right out of her famous play, The Women. After seeing The Women, Eleanor Roosevelt reputedly said that the only woman she knew who actually talked like the catty women in the play was Clare Boothe Luce herself. Claire imagined regaling her photographer buddies with the line at the staff watering hole over a gin and tonic. She tried to suppress her laughter. With luck her supposed impropriety with Mr. Luce would ensure that she’d never have to work with Mrs. Luce again.

  By ten, the crowd began to thin. Mr. Luce departed, but his wife
stayed, courting the guests as they said good-bye. Claire pulled the plugs on the lights, abruptly rendering the scene less glamorous. The waiters started to clear the dessert dishes. The maintenance men brought back the ladders that Claire and Seth had used to put up the lights, a sure sign that as far as they were concerned, this party was over. At an empty drinks table, Seth was organizing and numbering the film, matching it with sheets of captions. Evening gown and all, Claire climbed a ladder and began to take down the lights.

  “Can I give you a hand?” she heard from below. She looked down to see her father, dressed in white tie. He looked supremely debonair, without a trace of the faux-Chinese about him.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “You learning manners from your boss?” he asked smoothly.

  “No,” she caught herself. “Sorry, you surprised me. Have you been here all evening? I didn’t see you.”

  “Yes, I’ve been here, and I’ve seen you, but I stayed out of your way. Nobody likes a parent hanging around when they’re working. Kept my eye on you, though. Very impressive.”

  She found herself moved by his admiration.

  “Told my friends who you are. Hope you don’t mind. My daughter the famous photographer. Though I swore them to secrecy.”

  “The fact that you’re my father doesn’t have to be a secret.”

  “Well, thank you for that.” He flushed, or perhaps, Claire thought, he reddened simply from the lingering heat of the lamp she handed to him.

  “You usually come to events like this?” she asked.

  “Wouldn’t miss this party for the world. Clare Luce draws a terrific crowd. You have to give her credit.” He paused to watch as she handled the good-byes near the door. “And of course I want to do my part for the Chinese war effort. Help the starving children of Chungking, etc. You wouldn’t catch me in costume, however. That embroidered silk jacket John D. Rockefeller the Third sported pretty well did me in.”

  “Mrs. Luce complimented him on it especially.”

  “Well, anything JDR-Three does, she’s bound to like.” Something caught his attention across the room. “Don’t look now, my currently unmarried daughter, but two handsome and apparently unattached young naval officers are heading in our direction. I’d get down from that ladder if I were you. Speaking strictly as someone who has only your best interests at heart.”

  Gripping the ladder, she glanced over her shoulder. Jamie was heading toward her, looking exceedingly attractive in naval dress uniform. Another man in dress uniform accompanied him. As they came closer, she recognized Nick Catalano, both men, as her father said, handsome and at this moment projecting an excitement and magnetism that heretofore had been missing from the entire evening.

  The River Club was only thirteen blocks from the Rockefeller Institute. She’d invited Jamie to the party as her “second assistant,” to arrive at 10:00 PM. This was bending the rules, but she didn’t care. Jamie was rarely in town these days, and she was determined to see him when he was. And she genuinely needed the help here. Jamie could pack and carry the equipment while Seth double-checked the captions and spellings with Mrs. Luce. One mistake in the captions, and there’d be hell to pay. She didn’t think Mrs. Luce would object to Jamie’s attendance, as long as she didn’t realize that Claire had invited him. She wished she could have included Tia, who might have found the evening entertaining, but that would have been too much, Claire felt. Attractive men under seventy were always in demand at charity events, so most likely Jamie would be welcomed. He’d add a certain frisson to the scene. Watching Jamie cross the room, in his eagerness walking a few steps ahead of Nick, he already had, as far as Claire was concerned.

  She climbed down the ladder, maneuvering her gown. She’d told Jamie about her ambivalent relationship with her father and explained that although they were slowly growing closer, she still wasn’t entirely comfortable with him. She had not, however, discussed Jamie with her father. She wanted to keep her feelings private until she trusted that she and Jamie had a long-term future. Whatever happened to that doctor you were seeing? Didn’t he like Charlie? Didn’t he like your work schedule? These were questions she never wanted to hear from her father. Because of her reticence, she was now faced with this: Jamie giving her a quick hug (which Claire hoped Mrs. Luce didn’t see) and holding her elbows to admire her dress while Rutherford observed them with speculative interest.

  “Not too early, are we?” Jamie asked.

  “Not at all.” She moved away from him and introduced everyone.

  “I’m very pleased to meet you, sir,” Jamie said.

  “Indeed,” Rutherford replied, shaking hands firmly. He had no need for explanations. He read the situation immediately.

  “I invited Nick along, thinking there might be someone here for him to meet,” Jamie said.

  They looked around, but the few females remaining were elderly enough to need assistance getting to their cars and drivers.

  “Don’t think I’m not grateful,” Nick said. He had an edge of bad-boy sophistication that Claire found simultaneously intriguing and off-putting. Because Nick and Jamie were close friends, Claire focused on the off-putting aspect, resisting the attraction. Claire knew that Nick and Jamie were working together now and that Jamie relied on Nick’s clear-sighted honesty, not to mention his willingness to handle bureaucratic niceties. They made a good team, Jamie had told her.

  She felt Nick’s gaze upon her, taking in her low-cut dress and her body beneath it. The look wasn’t leering; instead it seemed a natural part of human nature—specifically the “man” part of “human nature.” Nonetheless Claire didn’t appreciate it. She shrugged it off, however. Jamie hoped that someday Nick would fall in love with his sister, but exposed to Nick’s stripping-her-naked evaluation, Claire wondered if Tia was experienced enough to handle him.

  “Sorry about that, young man,” Rutherford said genially. “Such well-respected and well-preserved pillars of society as those ladies are even out of my league.” The waiters were removing the tablecloths. “I think we should be moving along. Where should we go?”

  Claire wasn’t certain how her father had gotten himself invited on this outing. “I need to finish up here and drop the film at the office,” she said, trying to put him off.

  “Why, Edward Rutherford, isn’t it? How good of you to come.” Claire Boothe Luce approached them with Seth in tow worriedly reviewing sheets listing several hundred names. “I’m sorry I didn’t see you earlier.”

  “Ah, Mrs. Luce, living up to your reputation as a legendary beauty. As usual.”

  He was wonderful, Claire thought. In fact he was gallant. He kissed Mrs. Luce’s hand. She glowed under his attentions.

  “The evening was spectacular. Let me introduce two friends of mine, physicians both.” Names were exchanged, hands shaken.

  “Thank you so much for coming. I’m afraid we’re being moved out.” She gestured toward the cleaning people who were bringing in vacuums. “Forgive me, but I need to review some details with the staff from my husband’s magazine.” Her voice revealed a small yet pointed condescension toward Claire and Seth.

  “Of course,” Rutherford said. “The doctors and I were just leaving. Did you know, Mrs. Luce, that Claire Shipley here is my daughter?”

  For an instant she frowned and in an equal instant recovered her poise. “How lovely for you both.”

  “Well, well, we must be going,” Rutherford said lightheartedly. “How about coming back to my place for a drink, young fellows,” he said to Jamie and Nick, placing a hand on their shoulders. “Claire will join us later.”

  Jamie glanced at Claire, who nodded her assent. God knew how long Mrs. Luce would keep her here, and she couldn’t excuse herself to discuss a plan with Jamie. Rutherford ushered Jamie and Nick out before him.

  Back in one piece from the Chinese ball? Well done, Claire!” Tom O’Reilly, Mack’s nighttime deputy, greeted her from the drinks cart when Claire reached the office at 11:30 PM. Pi
pe in hand, Tom opened a bottle of beer. Claire let the equipment bags slide off her shoulders. She’d already told Seth to go home, so she’d returned to the office on her own in the car Mrs. Luce had assigned to her.

  With the staff keeping war hours, monitoring events and correspondents around the world, the office was bustling. The drinks cart, hidden in a coat closet during the nine-to-five daily slog, was prominently placed in the central corridor. Outside the windows were the lights of Manhattan, rooftops and skyscrapers glimpsed in a magical array, like a painting that transformed itself from office to office.

  “And how was the boss’s delightful consort?”

  “Beautiful as usual. And very polite. Car and driver, the works.” Claire wouldn’t gossip about Clare Boothe Luce here in the hallowed hallways of the Time & Life Building, where the walls had ears.

  “She sent a car and driver for you?” said Edith Logan, the nighttime supervisor, joining them at the cart. Edie refilled her Scotch on the rocks. She was a tough-minded woman in her fifties with short gray hair and skin wrinkled from too much smoking and too much sunburn. She wore her usual work uniform of a buttoned-down white blouse and a beige, boxy-cut suit, matched, surprisingly, with delicate navy blue high heels with a bow on the front. “In my next life, I want your job.”

  “I like it, I must admit.”

  Edie had come up through the newspaper business, but since she was a woman, the top jobs had eluded her. The night shift allowed her promotion. “Okay, Tom, the Chinese ball is scheduled to run next week, so let’s get it into production with this beer rather than the next one.”

  “Will do,” Tom said with a good-humored salute.

  Duncan Daily, a staff writer, strode down the hallway toward them. He was dressed in a tuxedo, dark hair smoothed back with something that made it shine, lips pursed, chin a touch more elevated than was strictly necessary. He tossed a black-and-white-checked muffler over his shoulder. “Claire! Beautiful dress. Come to El Morocco with me. You’re already ready. We’ll dance until four.”