by Jean Stone
“Here it is,” she said, stopping in front of a heavy oak outside door with a smoked-glass window on which was stenciled JONES AND ARCHAMBAULT, ATTORNEYS AT LAW. She drew in a long breath. Her knees grew weak.
Jason took her hand. He squeezed it and he smiled. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”
It was a small, loving gesture, and it helped buoy her strength. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I really do need to do this. I’d like to know what it is I’ve accepted.”
“I’m sorry, but he’s still tied up on the West Coast,” a young man who introduced himself as Phillip Archambault said. “Maybe I can help, though. I’m familiar with…with the reasons Mr. Jones contacted you.”
Sutter Jones’s partner was not at all like him. For one thing he did not look even forty, and his light hair and green eyes indicated that he, unlike Sutter, did not have a drop of Indian blood, Cherokee or otherwise. He led them through the small reception area and into a dark-wood-lined conference room, which had a mural of a foxhunt through a thick green forest. “We’ve only recently moved our offices here from California,” Archambault said. “We haven’t had time to redecorate yet.” He smiled and indicated they should sit down in the wine-colored leather chairs that surrounded a long, dark table.
“Do you know her?” Sarah asked once they were seated. “Do you know Laura Carrington?”
“Yes. Very well. My wife is an actress. Laura helped her get her start.”
Sarah didn’t ask who his wife was, though the name Archambault was not familiar.
“Laura is a very nice woman,” the young man continued. “She’s very kind. Generous.”
Sarah nodded. “So I’ve heard.”
From the corner of her eye she saw Jason shift on the chair. “What does she want?” Jason asked unexpectedly. “Does she want money or something?”
A few months ago, when the women first decided to open Second Chances, Jason had appeared at the shop one day. While Sarah was assembling her drawing table, Lily performed the honors of showing him around, describing the anticipated showroom renovations, being her delightful, enthusiastic self. When they returned to the area that would be Sarah’s studio, he had laughed. “You don’t really expect that the four of you have what it takes to run a business.” It hadn’t been as much a question as it had been a statement.
Sarah was as embarrassed now as she was back then.
She stopped herself from speaking up when she saw that Phillip smiled.
“From what I understand,” the young lawyer said, “Laura only wants to meet her daughter. But I think Mr. Jones has already explained that.”
“Yes,” Sarah said, a little too loudly, as if her voice could smother Jason’s insult. “And I’ve decided to meet her.” She hadn’t, of course, decided any such thing, not until that moment, not until right then. Besides, she reasoned, what if the woman did need money? If she were truly Sarah’s mother…
“I think you’ll be pleased,” Phillip said, directing his comment to Sarah, not to Jason. “But I think it would be best if Sutter goes with you.”
Jason sat up straight. “She needs an attorney to meet her mother?”
Phillip put his elbows on the long table and leaned forward. “It might make things more comfortable for Laura, and for you too, Sarah.”
Jason narrowed his eyes. “I’m going too.”
She shot him a stupefied look.
“Well,” Jason said with a cavalier smirk, “if she doesn’t want your money, maybe we can get some of hers. Studio time is getting more and more expensive. Maybe she’d like to become a patron of the arts. My arts.” He slid one of his cards across the table toward the attorney. Sarah hadn’t seen him take it out of his pocket.
The tall grandfather clock in the corner ticked off awkward seconds. Sarah thought she’d never been so mortified, not in front of Lily, not in front of anyone.
Then Phillip stood up. “Whatever you decide,” he said, “just let us know. Sutter should be back in town over the weekend.”
She found her legs; she found her voice. “Actually,” she said, “I’ve got to get back to West Hope. I have three weddings to plan.” She did not know what that had to do with anything, except that it seemed like a good exit line, a neutral way to pick up her embarrassment and get out of there.
“Get me a cab to Penn Station,” she said once she and Jason were outside on Madison.
“Sarah, don’t be angry.”
“I’m not angry. I’m repulsed by your behavior. How could you do that, Jason? How could you turn this into something about money?” It was rearing its ugly, green, crinkled head again—that invisible battle line in their relationship: money, the quest for it, and the fact that it meant so much more to Jason than it did to Sarah. He wanted the trappings; she merely wanted the earth. As with the Rule of Acceptance, Jason thought her philosophy was foolish.
“I’m only trying to protect you,” he insisted. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”
The sad part was, she knew it was true—his truth, anyway. “It also sounded as if you’re hoping something might be in it for you. God, Jason, how could you?”
He shook his head. “I was trying to see if that lawyer would react. I don’t want this woman to hurt you. I don’t want her to hurt Burch.”
She wondered if she could believe him and why, after all these years, she needed to wonder. She turned her eyes from him. “Did it sound as if she’s trying to hurt anyone? I didn’t tell you yet, but the woman established a scholarship fund for Indian kids. Even Sutter’s partner mentioned she is generous. She helped his wife break into acting. She hardly sounds self-centered or needy.”
His hand grasped her arm. “You’re taking their word for it, Sarah. You don’t even know them. You don’t even know if one iota of the things they’ve said is true.”
She shook off his touch and looked across Madison, because to look at Jason would only fuel more anger. “I know that my son has a birthmark just like Laura Carrington’s. How does that play into your theory of a scam?”
To that, he said nothing.
“Besides,” she added, “Sutter Jones is Cherokee. He knew me. He knew my buffalo-grass doll.” She stepped off the curb and hailed her own cab, tears threatening to spill.
“Sarah, please—”
She opened the cab door. “I’ll pick up my things the next time I’m in town. But there’s a bag in the living room with a red dress inside. Please mail it to me, if you can afford the postage, what with the increase in studio time and all.” Then she closed the taxi door and was too upset to look back.
32
That will teach Irene Benson to mess with one of us,” Lily said after they’d left their fourth appointment of the day, after she’d once again spread the word that Irene-the-Queen had officially been dumped.
Jo had said little, stuck as she was somewhere between being appalled at Lily’s brazenness and thinking that she was a genius. Each of the caterers had been stunned at the news; each had displayed the same look of wow on his face (in one case, her face). Each most assuredly maintained calm and dignity until the women departed the premises, then probably pounced on their BlackBerries and alerted their associates, their friends, their media contacts. Within minutes the word would have spread from New York to L.A.
Ha-ha, Lily said was the word of the day, and Jo could not say she’d feel sorry for Andrew if he became caught in the backlash.
“I think we should eat in tonight,” Lily announced as Jo and Elaine followed her back into the apartment late in the afternoon. “We don’t want to stir up any more commotion. We’ll just let people think we’ve disappeared back to Bermuda or some other place.” She flopped on the sofa and kicked off her shoes. “I’m exhausted.”
Elaine said, “Me too,” and sat down beside her. Jo remained standing, looking at the conspirators.
“Thank you,” she said. “Thanks for being such good, loyal friends.” Lily’s antics and Elaine’s backup had not removed the hurt Irene (or was it Andrew?) had
caused, but they certainly had salved a great deal of the sting.
Lily patted the space on the sofa between Elaine and her, and Jo sat down. “We will always stick together,” Lily said, taking Jo’s left hand, Elaine taking her right. “I’m not sure Sarah would have approved of the way we handled things today, but she won’t be able to argue with the well-deserved results.”
Jo nodded, then said, “Speaking of Sarah, I wonder how she’s doing. I wonder if she decided to meet her mother.”
The three women went silent, then Lily said, “Well, if she needs our help, we’ll be there for her too.”
“The Four Musketeers,” Elaine said, and they all laughed, then launched into a dialogue about picking Elaine’s father (and Mrs. Tuttle) up the next day and wasn’t it nice that the future can hold surprises and love at any age.
Barry Franklin was a small, quiet man whose computer-chip mind sorted and calculated with speed and precision that defied nature, though it might have been assisted by the double espressos he seemed to enjoy drinking.
Andrew had spent the past few days (and late nights) trying to keep up with Barry, reviewing page after page of John’s business dealings, how they were structured, what were their missions, where they stood now. Terms like leadership models and identifying benchmarks and sustained success swirled in Andrew’s mind when he crawled into bed long past midnight on Friday, worn out from the new responsibilities he seemed to have inherited but did not want.
He and Irene, however, had reached a compromise. Andrew would keep John’s empire from being taken over until a proper consultant could be hired to prepare the package that would (hopefully) entice a buyer, or until John reclaimed his senses and returned to New York.
Andrew didn’t care which of those events came first, though it would be nice if one happened soon.
The Benson Group had grown larger than Andrew knew. In addition to Buzz—the magazine in which John now had controlling interest—there were five radio stations sprinkled from Seattle to Charlotte; seven TV stations, mostly in the Midwest; and eleven daily newspapers, though three were in the process of being sold.
As compensation for his efforts, Andrew would receive John’s stock in Buzz and his choice of a radio or TV station, though none was situated in West Hope. It was a very generous payment that made the hours with Barry more endurable. A financial future that might actually be secure grew more appealing each time Andrew thought about Jo.
Still, as he turned off the light over the headboard of the guest room’s king-size bed, Andrew couldn’t shake the feeling this was too good to be anything remotely like true.
Controlling interest in Buzz magazine.
A radio or TV station of his choice.
Just for being nice to Irene and seeing to it that she didn’t lose everything her errant husband had amassed?
When Andrew was young, his mother often told him the story of a little boy named Gregory who wanted a bicycle very badly. Richard, the school bully, said he’d give him one. All Gregory had to do was run across the playground in his underwear.
“What would you do,” his mother asked each time she told the story, “if you were Gregory and you wanted the bicycle?”
Irene was offering Andrew a big bicycle now, one that was bright and shiny and had bells and whistles that he alone could not afford.
Of course, he still could tell Irene, “Sorry, I’m going home.” He could be content with what he had. Hell, he had been before this dropped into his lap.
But each evening when Irene stopped into John’s study to say good night and thank you to Andrew and Barry; each morning when she appeared with her brave and still beautiful face, announcing the plans she’d made that day for herself and Cassie; each day that passed without another message from John, Andrew’s intent to go home faded a little.
Irene, after all, was trying so hard to hold herself together.
Irene was trying so hard to carry on.
His role had nothing to do with a shiny bicycle. Did it?
He stared up at the dark ceiling and wondered if having lunch with Jo might help him put his own life back in order. He could not let his allegiance to Irene derail the love he felt with Jo. Tomorrow he would ask Irene for the card he’d given her with Lily’s address and phone number so she could write a thank-you note for the nice flowers that she didn’t like. Tomorrow he would call Jo and she would cheer him up. He closed his eyes and hoped the women hadn’t left the city yet.
33
The Southfield Mountain wedding for the couple from Pittsfield and Julie and Helen’s wedding-in-a-wheelchair were turning out to be easier to plan than Rhonda Blair’s private Valentine’s Day nuptials, especially after the famous bride had telephoned on Thursday afternoon and told Jo’s mother she decided to invite two hundred guests after all.
“And she wants the guests in red,” Marion told Sarah on Saturday morning when Sarah went to work, while the others were still in New York. “Dresses, tuxedoes, in red or white. She wants it to be as talked about as Truman Capote’s famous black-and-white ball, only in red and white.”
Even with her reclusive life, Sarah knew that Capote’s black-and-white ball had been held in the sixties, probably around the time Rhonda Blair had been searching for husband number one. And while the late author’s guest list had been comprised of society’s finest, or presumed to be finest, the soap opera’s attendees would no doubt be Hollywood. Flash, trash, glitz, tits, bling, bling, bling. The world over which Sarah’s birth mother apparently once reigned.
After sharing the distressing news, Marion offered to stay and answer the phone—it rang so frequently these days.
Sarah slumped onto the stool at her drawing table, trying to focus on the work at hand and not on her life. She took a big gulp of herb tea; she tossed back her hair. She’d let it flow down her back today, not wanting to restrict it in a silver clip, not wanting to expose anything but her Cherokee blood, her Native American pride.
She had no idea why. Perhaps it was a way of tuning out the white side of her heritage; perhaps it was to serve as a reminder that there was a part of her that Jason would never reach, that he could never know.
Perhaps she was angry that Jason might be right, that Laura Carrington wanted to know Sarah for self-serving reasons. Or maybe she was simply hoping that Sutter Jones would call.
She stared at the drawings scattered on the table. The train ride back to West Hope from the city had been too long yesterday, too long and too lonely, with too much time to mull over what had happened, to wonder whether this incident with Jason would become another chasm in the growing void between them, to ponder when she’d meet the woman who claimed to be her mother.
The good-looking man-boy in the café car hadn’t been on duty, or Sarah might have passed the time feeling more confident about herself, less like an insignificant lump of clay.
To all things there is a time, a place, a purpose.
She had stared out the window of the train at the gray strip of the Hudson and tried to understand what her purpose had become, now that she hardly was a lover, now that she hardly was a mother. She watched the slow-moving waters and thought about the Native Americans who’d once inhabited the area—the Mohawks, the Mohicans, the Iroquois—distant ancestors by the color of their skin, men and women who’d paddled their canoes on the quiet river, who’d known the often grim art of survival, at least for a while. They would not have been comfortable with flash and trash and bling.
Taking another drink, Sarah picked up a drawing and pretended to study it. It pictured her original concepts in red, black, and gold, the grand idea for Rhonda Blair. The look would no longer work. She’d need to transform it from broodingly seductive to jaunty, Hallmark-y, happy, a mood fit for two hundred red-and-white-clad guests. Exactly the mood that she did not feel.
“Andrea and Dave are here,” Marion said from the doorway to the showroom.
“Who?” Sarah asked.
“The couple from Pittsfield. One of
your Valentine’s Day bride and grooms.”
Bride and grooms. A happy, happy phrase for a happy, happy time.
It occurred to Sarah how strange it was that when some people were living out their happiest times, others were trudging through heartbroken, heartbreaking days, weeks, months. For every happy couple out there, Sarah wondered how many people were either unattached, unattached and miserable, or attached and wishing that they weren’t.
She put down her red marker and said, “I’m on my way,” because it was the time and place for Andrea and Dave, and their purpose, at least for now, seemed clear.
“You’re married? Oh, my God!” Elaine shouted and Lily squealed and Jo smiled at the happy couple after they’d loaded their bags and themselves into the limo. The car was careening from the city and the traffic and the related noise.
Mrs. Tuttle—“Larry,” for Laurene, now Mrs. Robert McNulty—sat in the backseat, holding out her hand, gently flaring her fingers so the women of Second Chances could see the shiny gold band that proved that she’d taken her second chance, and that Elaine’s father had too.
In addition to their smiles, the bride and groom wore tans. Instead of finding the whole scene depressing, Jo felt oddly pleased at the reminder that love can work out anytime, at least for other people.
“I knew that ships’ captains could marry couples,” Lily said, “but I never knew anyone who actually did it.”
Jo wondered if Lily was disappointed that Elaine’s father had married a woman his own age instead of falling for Lily. But Lily had Frank Forbes now, though their relationship sometimes seemed more like one of friends. She smiled at her arrogance to think she knew what constituted a loving relationship and what did not.
After patiently enduring the women-chatter about the ceremony (on the deck at sunset) and the flowers (white orchids from the islands) and the champagne (the cruise line provided a glass to every passenger who showed up to toast the “new” McNultys), Elaine’s father said, “So how’s the business going?”
