The Proprietor's Daughter

by Lewis Orde

  “Paul, I will do anything but leer at large bosoms.”

  “I’ll mention that when I make the arrangements.”

  *

  For Katherine, her first flight on a supersonic aircraft was a revelation. Concorde was small in comparison to the other airliners that dotted the apron at Heathrow Airport. Slim and sleek, like a Morgan sports car parked in a row of comfortable but clumsy Cadillacs. Unlike in the Morgan, however, there was little sensation of speed. Only the machmeter revealed that the aircraft was flying at twice the speed of sound.

  In New York, a limousine whisked Saxon and Katherine to the Sherry-Netherland. While their baggage was taken up to the suite, Saxon told Katherine that he had to go out and meet with the lawyers representing Saxon-America. “It’ll probably be an all-day affair. Will you be able to keep yourself busy?”

  “I think so. I’ll go for a walk, look in the shops.”

  Katherine went up to the suite. It was on two floors, living quarters below and two bedrooms upstairs. Her baggage had been set out in one bedroom, Saxon’s in another. She changed from the pants and sweater she’d worn for the flight into a figure-revealing electric-blue wool dress and black suede boots. After telephoning home — as she had promised to do — to tell her children that she’d arrived, she went downstairs. When she asked for directions to the nearest bookshop, the doorman pointed her toward Doubleday.

  Katherine found four copies of Vietnam, the Officers in Doubleday, stacked one behind the other. The front cover depicted an army officer in dress blue uniform superimposed over a montage of war photographs. On the back was Barnhill’s picture, taken in front of Buckingham Palace. The biography listed him as living in London, working as a journalist for an American wire service. Katherine bought one of the books for herself, and rearranged the remaining three so that they were prominently displayed.

  Leaving Doubleday, she walked along narrow sun-starved canyons of streets until she reached the return address on Barnhill’s letters, a grimy apartment building with a busy supermarket on the ground floor. Katherine pressed the buzzer for Barnhill’s apartment.

  “Hello? Who’s there?”

  “I have a copy of Vietnam, the Officers, which I would like to have autographed by the author.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Open the door and let me in. I want you to sign a copy of your book.”

  “Katherine!” Even the intercom’s distortion failed to hide the joy in Barnhill’s voice. “Are you in New York?”

  “No. I took ventriloquism lessons, and now I’m throwing my voice all the way from London. Of course I’m in New York! Will you open the blasted door before the roaches get me?”

  The door clicked. Katherine let herself in, and entered the elevator. When it stopped at the fifteenth floor, Barnhill was waiting, his face a mixture of utter surprise and supreme pleasure. “Hug,” he said, and threw his arms around her, squeezing the breath from her body.

  “Enough! I don’t want to go home in a body cast.”

  Barnhill stepped back, amazement still glowing on his face. “I can’t believe you’re here. What are you doing in New York?”

  “I flew over with John Saxon. He’s in the middle of buying his first building here.”

  “Just what America needs, another real estate magnate,” Barnhill muttered, parodying Saxon’s greeting when the two men had first met at Franz’s funeral.

  “Are you going to show me where you live, or are you going to leave me out here?”

  “Come on in.” Barnhill led Katherine down a narrow corridor to a surprisingly bright and cheerful apartment. She was drawn to the living room window. Straight down was Ninth Avenue, a clutter of traffic punctuated by vivid flashes of yellow.

  “How many taxis are there in New York?”

  “Never enough.”

  She looked up from the street, out toward the west. Through gaps between buildings she could see water, a distant shore. “What’s over there?”

  “That’s the Hudson. New Jersey’s on the other side.”

  “Will you sign my book?”

  Barnhill saw the Doubleday bag. “How many were there?”

  “Four. Now there are only three. How many did Doubleday have when it first came out?”

  “Six. One of the world’s best bookstores has sold the grand total of three Raymond Barnhill books in a month.”

  “The other three will sell quickly now.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  “I didn’t like the way they were displayed, so I rearranged them. One has pride of place in the window now, right under the sign that reads ‘Bestsellers.’”

  Barnhill laughed, uncertain whether to believe her or not. “What do you want me to write in the book?”

  “Don’t ask me. You’re the writer.”

  Barnhill studied a blank page for a moment, before writing, “Katherine, thank you for being my friend.” When he handed the book back to her, she said, “That’s very sweet. Thank you.”

  “How long are you here for?”

  “Just until Friday night.”

  “When will I be able to see you?”

  “During the day. I’m hoping you’re going to show me New York. I want to see some real glimpses of America.”

  “How about starting now, with lunch? I’m feeling flushed on account of some money a kind friend sent me last week.”

  “It might be only one-fifteen to you, but it’s six-fifteen to me. I don’t want lunch; I want dinner.”

  Barnhill threw a herringbone jacket over his shirt. “You’re going to have to settle for lunch.”

  They went downstairs and walked along Forty-eighth Street until they reached Sixth Avenue. “That’s Rockefeller Center,” Barnhill said. “And that” — he pointed to a cart on which was a gaudy yellow and blue umbrella — “is a genuine American hot dog stand, where we’re having lunch.”

  “You are joking.”

  “I most certainly am not. You want glimpses of America? No better way to start than with a good American hot dog.”

  She followed him to the cart, watching as he ordered. “Doesn’t the Eagle pay you enough to eat decently?”

  He turned around, offering her one of the hot dogs. “Mustard and sauerkraut?”

  She took it from him, holding it gingerly. From deep inside, a voice cautioned that she was holding a loaded gun to her head. One nibble would be like pulling the trigger. But she watched Barnhill bite into his hot dog, and he seemed none the worse for the experience.

  Barnhill saw the hot dog lifted to her mouth and he understood her predicament. Raised on smoked salmon and pheasant, Katherine did not know the pleasure of lunching on the sidewalk outside Rockefeller Center. “Go on, introduce your taste buds to a whole new world.”

  At last, she took a bite, chewed, and had to admit that it tasted good. Three more bites, and it was gone. When Barnhill asked if she wanted another, she nodded eagerly.

  “When you’re dining at some gourmet restaurant with John Saxon tonight, eating off fine china, and drinking Château Latour out of high-priced crystal, you’ll look back on lunchtime and wish you were eating a hot dog again.”

  “I bet you I don’t.”

  “How much?”

  “Five pounds . . . I mean dollars.”

  “You’re on.”

  After walking a dozen blocks to the Empire State Building, they took the elevator to the observation deck. Barnhill pointed out landmarks, the Hudson and East rivers, the Statue of Liberty in the harbor, the Chrysler Building shining in the cool November sun, the twin towers of the World Trade Center. “Six hundred miles south of those towers . . . that’s where I come from.”

  “You sound as though you’re homesick for South Carolina.”

  “Sometimes I am. I’ll take you down there. Not this time, but on another trip. In the fall. You’ve never seen nature in all her colorful glory until you’ve seen the Carolinas in the fall. New Englanders claim their fall foliage is the best, but it doesn’t even
come a close second to the South.”

  By the time they came down from the observation deck, it was almost three-thirty. They stopped in a restaurant for a cup of coffee, then Katherine said she had to return to the hotel. Barnhill flagged down a cab and stood on the sidewalk, waving, as she was driven away. While the taxi bounced its way north along Madison Avenue, Katherine sat staring at the inscription Barnhill had written into the book. “Katherine, thank you for being my friend.” No other words could have meant more.

  Two messages greeted Katherine at the Sherry-Netherland. The first, from Saxon, informed her that they were having dinner that evening with Frank Lane, president and chief executive officer of Saxon-America, and his wife, Alice. The second message was from a man named Larry Miller. Katherine telephoned him from the suite.

  “Welcome to New York, Katherine,” Miller greeted her. “Paul Hyde contacted me to say that you’d be interested in making an appearance on American television. I produce a show called ‘Speak Out.’ It’s a current-events discussion program aimed at afternoon viewers who believe there’s more to life than soap operas.”

  “Is there?”

  Miller laughed nervously. “I hope that’s an example of English humor. Would Thursday be good for you to appear as a member of the ‘Speak Out’ panel? Our current theme concerns the election we’ve just had, and Thursday’s show will be asking if the move to the right heralds a new, more rigid morality.”

  “How could I possibly contribute anything? I know nothing about American morality, rigid or otherwise.”

  “Your country swung to the right eighteen months before we did. Perhaps you can tell us what to expect.”

  “Who else will be on the panel?”

  “Peg Farraday, a civil liberties attorney, Lucille Benoit, who represents the antiabortion lobby, and James Parker, an evangelist who heads the ‘Glory to God’ ministry in Virginia. Parker has a show every Sunday morning called ‘Hour of Glory.’”

  “You don’t want me there for my opinion. You want me there to keep the other panelists away from each other’s throats.”

  Miller laughed. “Ah, that English sense of humor. Save some of it for Thursday afternoon.”

  *

  John Saxon returned to the Sherry-Netherland just after five, carrying a heavy briefcase, which he dropped in the center of the living room floor. Katherine, having come out of the shower ten minutes earlier, sat on a couch in a white terry robe, while she watched a television news program. Her long blond hair was wrapped, turban-style, in a towel. Saxon kissed her, senses taking in the fresh scent of the Pear’s soap she always used.

  “Is the building yours yet?”

  “There are still details to be ironed out. Lawyers over here must work by the minute. The longer something takes, the more they can make. How did you spend your day?”

  “I went out for a walk, bought a book.”

  Saxon’s eyes dropped to the coffee table. In the center was Vietnam, the Officers. He picked it up, saw Raymond Barnhill’s photograph on the back, then opened it. “Was Raymond doing a signing?”

  “Just one copy. Mine. I went around to see him. He lives quite close to here.”

  Saxon’s eyebrows formed a shallow V. “Ninth Avenue and Forty-eighth Street?”

  “Three cheers for your memory, John Saxon.”

  “Is that why you came with me to New York? So you could see Raymond Barnhill?”

  “No.” The instant the denial left her lips, she wondered if she had told a lie. “Just because I’m with you does not mean I can’t see Raymond while I’m here. We’re friends, just like he wrote in that book. Friends do not fly three thousand miles and then not see each other. Besides, Raymond works for the Eagle. Both Sally Roberts and Lawrie Stimkin, the Eagle’s new editor, asked me to pass on some messages.”

  Saxon replaced the book on the table. “Frank and Alice Lane are collecting us at seven-thirty. Will you be ready?”

  “Of course. By the way, if you get your business finished by Thursday afternoon, you can come and lend me moral support. I’m part of a television brains trust that’s trying to figure out whether or not we’re entering the age of a new morality.” She walked up the stairs, undoing the towel around her head, and letting the damp blond hair cascade onto her shoulders.

  Frank Lane arrived at the Sherry-Netherland in a Mercedes. Five years older than Saxon, he was a tall, broad-shouldered man who had played football for Yale in his college days. Only his silvery hair gave away the fact that he had turned fifty. By contrast, Alice, his wife, was a tiny woman who seemed in danger of being eaten alive by the sable coat she wore. Katherine, wearing a Russian silver fox coat over an off-the-shoulder black dress, climbed into the back of the Mercedes with Alice. Saxon took the front passenger seat.

  “Where are we going?” Saxon asked.

  “I made eight o’clock reservations at Le Cirque.”

  “That gives us plenty of time. Let’s show Katherine what all the fuss is about.”

  Lane drove south on Fifth Avenue, then west on Forty-second Street. Midway between Fifth and Sixth avenues, he pulled into the curb. Katherine, sitting on the right-hand side of the car, peered up at a curving tower of shimmering black glass and steel. “You’re buying this?”

  “Next week this time,” Saxon remarked, “that building will be called Saxon Tower.”

  “Lawyers and their nit-picking permitting,” Lane added.

  “Bylines belong on books, not buildings,” Katherine stated.

  Saxon burst out laughing. “I’m as proud of my works as any writer is of his. Besides, buildings serve a more practical purpose than books — they provide shelter.” He motioned for Lane to continue with the journey.

  Midway through dinner at Le Cirque, fatigue caught up with Katherine. In New York, it might be dinnertime, but nothing could convince her body and her brain that it was not two-thirty in the morning. Saxon, noticing Katherine’s head begin to nod, told the Lanes that he was feeling tired. “It’s been a very long day, so I hope you’ll excuse us if we make it an early night.”

  The short drive over bumpy roads, coupled with the brisk November night, gave Katherine a temporary burst of energy. Her eyes were wide open, her brain clear, when she entered the suite at the Sherry-Netherland. “That was very gallant of you, John, claiming you were tired when it was my face that was about to fall into the dessert.”

  She slipped out of the silver fox coat, and draped it over the arm of the couch. Saxon drew close to her, lowering his head to run his lips across her bare shoulders. “Tomorrow night we’ll have dinner alone, I promise you.”

  “I’ll do my best to stay awake.” As if to mock her words, tiredness closed in again. She yawned, trying too late to stifle the noise with her hand.

  “I think you’d better go to bed, Katherine.”

  “I think you’d better come with me.”

  The bulging briefcase was exactly where Saxon had left it six hours earlier. He tapped it with his foot. “I’d love to, but there are some papers I want to look through first. I’ve got to prepare for tomorrow’s tussles with the lawyers.”

  She yawned again. “Spoilsport.”

  He lifted her in his arms and carried her upstairs, setting her down gently in the middle of the bed. “Katherine, whatever I said about you and Raymond before . . . I’m sorry.”

  “Why did you say anything?”

  “Because I was tired from the journey. Because I’m very excited about this deal. And because I’m a little jealous.”

  “Raymond’s a friend, nothing more.”

  “I understand. That’s what he wrote in the book.” He smiled down at her. “Can you manage to undress yourself?”

  “I think so. If I need help, I’ll call.”

  “I’ll be listening.”

  Katherine undressed, removed the little makeup she wore, and slid beneath the sheets. She fell asleep quickly, but not before realizing she owed Raymond Barnhill five dollars. He had won his bet. Eating good f
ood on fine china, and drinking vintage Bordeaux from expensive crystal, fared badly against the gourmet delight of a hot dog with mustard and sauerkraut eaten on the sidewalk outside Rockefeller Center.

  *

  Katherine gave Barnhill the five dollars the following day, when she met him again for lunch. He accepted with a smile, and a satisfied “What did I tell you?”

  This time, Katherine’s glimpse of America was the crowded Carnegie Deli on Seventh Avenue, just around the corner from Carnegie Hall. Barnhill ordered corned beef sandwiches — “That’s what you English call salt beef,” he told Katherine — and they shared a tiny table with an overweight police officer and a businessman in a Brooks Brothers suit.

  No matter how wide Katherine opened her mouth, it was never wide enough to allow passage to the sandwich. In the end, she capitulated, removing half the thinly sliced meat. “This is obscene. I’ve never seen sandwiches like this anywhere.”

  “Certainly not in England.”

  “How many people die each year from heart attacks because of food like this?”

  The fat police officer thrust himself into the conversation. “Lady, everyone’s got to die from something. Personally, I can’t think of a better way to go than this.”

  Katherine and Barnhill left the restaurant laughing. Arms linked, they crossed Central Park South. “Did I mention that I’m going to be on television in two days?” Katherine asked as they entered the park. “I’ll be one of the panelists on ‘Speak Out.’”

  “Who else will be there?”

  Katherine tried to recall the names of the other panelists. “A lawyer called Peg Farraday. Lucille Ben . . .?”

  “Benoit? The pro-life spokesperson?”

  “Yes. And a television preacher called James Parker.”

  “Good luck. In between Parker quoting Scripture, Lucille Benoit claiming that America murders one million unborn babies every year, and Peg Farraday accusing them both of fascism, you won’t get a word in edgeways.”

  Katherine spent the afternoon reading Barnhill’s book. It was vastly different from any other war book she had ever read, an intellectual dissection of the characters rather than an action story. Katherine wondered which of the junior officers Barnhill had based on himself. Probably one of those renegades who did their military careers no good at all by arguing in the officers’ club over the rights and wrongs of the war.