Second Love

by Gould, Judith

  Jimmy Vilinsky died as he had lived. Owing a bundle.

  26

  Two days later. Ten-thirty in the morning.

  Dorothy-Anne's chauffeur-driven Infiniti Q45, sleek and black as a Stealth bomber, bore her in silent luxury down the Sawmill River Parkway to the Henry Hudson Parkway, where it joined the coagulation of traffic at the toll booths.

  The traffic backup normally wouldn't have bothered her, but today it did. She realized her annoyance was a direct result of the summons— couched in the polite language of a request, but an unmistakable summons nonetheless—which her bankers had sprung on her the previous afternoon.

  It did not bode well, Dorothy-Anne suspected, and she wondered what their major concern would be. The effect of the Legionnaire's disease on the bottom line? Freddie's death and the lack of a strong male executive at her side? Or did they simply want to reassure themselves that she was still of sound mind and body?

  Not that it mattered. Whatever the reason, she'd had no choice but to agree to the meeting.

  Because she owed.

  Seven hundred and fifty million. Plus a $50-million payment due in May.

  All of which, she told herself reasonably, gave AmeriBank the right to be worried. They were, after all, holding a hell of a lot of paper.

  Yes, but they have the Hale Company as collateral, she reminded herself.

  Forbes's last estimate of her worth was $8.3 billion.

  And that's not exactly chopped liver.

  Rennie pulled up in front of One AmeriBank Plaza, a soulless steel and glass tower down near Wall Street. She watched Rennie as he came around and held open the rear door. A sudden blast of icy wind, cold as bankers' blood, hit Dorothy-Anne squarely, made her recoil.

  Well, here goes, she thought, grimacing as she pulled together the front of her brown shearling wrap, cut wide and long, with chocolate embroidery and shearling fringes, an elegant concoction by Fendi that softened the severity of what she thought of as her 'banker's suit.' Then she got out, leaned into the oncoming wind, and averted her face as she climbed the three shallow steps up to the granite-paved plaza.

  It was an engineering disaster, a vertical wind tunnel where invisible cyclones whirled around a red abstract sculpture. Keeping her eyes narrowed against airborne grit, she fought her way to the building's entrance and pushed her way through the revolving door.

  After the plaza outside, the heated, high, white marble lobby felt especially welcoming.

  Dorothy-Anne went straight to the long black lozenge of a marble reception desk, where she had to sign in and wait to be cleared by security before getting on an elevator.

  The elevator stopped smoothly and the doors sighed open. As she stepped out into the reception area, she felt the usual sense of disorientation.

  The building's lobby and elevator might have been ultramodern, but the fifty-seventh floor reeked of an earlier era, with the kind of staid, traditional decor bankers and lawyers go for in a big way. Mahogany paneling. Chesterfield sofas. Groups of leather wing chairs. All intended to convey an air of financial solidity, no doubt.

  But the low ceilings and lack of windows spoiled the effect, interjected a disturbing false note. To pull it off successfully, the interior needed height, windows, proportions.

  There was no need for Dorothy-Anne to announce herself to the receptionist: a young executive in a Brooks Brothers suit was coming toward her, hand extended in welcome. 'Mrs. Cantwell?' he said pleasantly.

  Dorothy-Anne looked at him. 'That's right.'

  'I'm Mike Mellow.' He smiled. 'One of Mr. Priddy's assistants.'

  They shook hands, their grips equally firm and cool. Not friendly but courteous.

  Dorothy-Anne knew his type. A gofer with an MBA, itching to go places. The business world was full of Mike Mellows.

  'Mr. Priddy didn't want to keep you waiting,' he said. 'If you'll come this way, please?'

  He led the way down a mahogany-paneled corridor. Both walls were lined with gloomy, gilt-framed portraits. These, Dorothy-Anne knew from previous visits, were the long-dead founding fathers of the various banking institutions that, over the past two hundred years, had coalesced into this one immense entity. To a man, they were all somberly dressed and emanated stern disapproval and thin-lipped thrift.

  A far cry from her own inviting, people-friendly headquarters.

  She followed Mike Mellow through a waiting room, where several men were biding their time to see Julian Priddy, then an outer office where two secretaries were busy at computer terminals and a third was on the telephone, and straight to the Big Man's door.

  Mellow knocked, and without waiting for a response, opened it and stepped inside, letting Dorothy-Anne enter first.

  Julian Tyler Priddy always reminded her of the hood ornament on a classic car: tall, slim, patrician, buffed, and beautifully turned out, with a sleek, aerodynamic face and swept-back silver hair. His custom-made pinstripes were Savile Row, and his conservative silk tie was fashioned in a perfect Windsor knot. He had cold eyes and the disconcerting habit of blinking rapidly.

  'Mrs. Cantwell.'

  His voice was sonorous and his accent Bostonian; he had grown up on Beacon Hill. He rose from the high-backed red leather swivel behind his desk and came around it to shake hands.

  'First of all, on behalf of myself and this bank, I would like to express my most sincere condolences.' His eyelids blinked rapidly. 'Your husband was a fine man.'

  Dorothy-Anne nodded. 'Yes, he'— she almost said 'is,' but caught herself in time—'he was.'

  Mike Mellow hovered on the periphery of her awareness; closer in, her attention was drawn to the stranger who had risen from a heavy club chair. She glanced at him, then raised questioning eyebrows at Julian Priddy.

  If Priddy was the least bit uneasy, he didn't let it show. 'Mrs. Cantrell, may I introduce Sir Ian Connery,' he said, launching smoothly into the introduction. 'Sir Ian, Mrs. Cantwell.'

  Sir Ian shook hands with her. 'Mrs. Cantwell.'

  'Sir Ian.'

  Dorothy-Anne appraised him warily. She hadn't been forewarned that a third party would be present at the meeting, and the fact that a surprise had been sprung on her made her deeply suspicious. From experience, she had learned to be distrustful of surprises. Nine times out of ten, they boded no good.

  For this reason she gave Sir Ian a longer and more thorough onceover than was her habit.

  Sir Ian Connery was chubby: too well fed to let her accurately guess his age. His face was pink and his skin was baby smooth and he wore large black-framed glasses. His hair was white and receding, and his eyebrows were black and gray barbed wire. He had on a double-breasted black wool suit with a fine gray pinstripe in it, and a tie of regimental stripes. A yellow silk handkerchief with a tiny paisley pattern showed in his breast pocket. His hands were small and pudgy and as pink and smooth as his face.

  'Mr. Priddy informed me of your recent loss,' he told Dorothy- Anne. The voice he projected was rich and plummy. 'Most regrettable.' He shook his head gravely and murmured: 'Bad joss. Bad. Bereavement's no time to conduct business. Wish it weren't necessary.'

  Dorothy-Anne's gaze flickered coldly with suspicion. 'And what business might that be?' she asked sharply.

  'Why don't we sit down?' Priddy broke in, clasping his hands and rubbing them together. 'Mike!' This to the distantly hovering Mellow.

  'Sir!'

  'Why don't you take Mrs. Cantwell's coat, then scare up two coffees and another tea?'

  The Caucasian, Yale-educated Step-'n-Fetchit jumped to. Eagerly helped Dorothy-Anne out of her coat and rushed off again.

  Priddy, with the air of a mother hen, shepherded Dorothy-Anne and Sir Ian to the red leather club chairs arranged around a Chippendale silver table with elaborate fretwork. Leather upholstery sighed under their weight. Sir Ian interjected sadness in a neutral smile, and noticed the tension in Dorothy-Anne's posture. She sat a little too erect, her eyes bright and alert, like those of a cat caught in a sudden l
ight.

  Clearing his throat, Priddy said: 'Sir Ian is from Hong Kong. He is chief executive of the Pan Pacific Bank.'

  Dorothy-Anne waited.

  'Doubt it rings a bell,' Sir Ian added, smiling forgiveness at Dorothy- Anne. 'Small bank. Strictly private until recently. Still small, in fact. Not even a vest pocket compared to this.' He indicated AmeriBank with a sweeping glance around the spacious corner office. 'Not even a blip on the financial radar screen.'

  'Sir Ian is being modest,' Priddy told Dorothy-Anne. 'We all know Asia and the Pacific Rim are exploding. These days it's where the action is. Everywhere you look there's double-digit growth.'

  'Yes, but we're not telling Mrs. Cantwell anything she doesn't already know.' Sir Ian smiled pleasantly at her. 'The Hale Companies have been a major player in the Far East for . . . what? Nearly two decades, is it?'

  Dorothy-Anne nodded but did not speak. She knew a tag team in action when she saw one.

  I've been set up, she realized.

  The only thing she couldn't figure out was why.

  I have to be careful, she cautioned herself. I'm squared off against two cunning opponents. One will try to distract me while the other goes in for the kill.

  If only she knew what in God's name was going on!

  I'm AmeriBank's customer! she wanted to remind Priddy. You're supposed to be on my side!

  Julian Priddy continued, 'If Pan Pacific grows at just half the rate as the rest of the region, it will soon be a power to be reckoned with.'

  Sir Ian chuckled. 'Don't listen to him, Mrs. Cantwell. Mr. Priddy accused me of being modest. Well, now I can accuse him of being too kind.'

  They fell silent as Mike returned with a pewter tray and set it down on the fretwork table. The coffee and tea were already poured, served in gilt-rimmed white Wedgwood cups and saucers. A matching creamer, sugar bowl, and saucer filled with packets of Equal were on the side.

  'Thank you, Mike. That will be all.' Priddy dismissed him without a glance and handed the cups around.

  'Sugar?' he asked Dorothy-Anne. 'Cream?'

  She shook her head. 'No, thank you. Black's fine.' She took a polite sip, then set the cup and saucer down.

  Coffee, not lunch. I obviously no longer rate lunch.

  'Unfortunate, this Singapore thing,' Sir Ian said casually, while sipping his tea. He looked over the cup at Dorothy-Anne. 'Can't be good for business. Hear you had a spate of cancellations.'

  Dorothy-Anne felt an icy chill. 'And what, may I ask, is your interest in all this?' she inquired coldly.

  But it was Priddy who took the ball and ran with it. 'Sir Ian,' he announced quietly, 'has a vested interest in the Hale Companies.'

  'Oh?' Dorothy-Anne spiked Priddy with a glare. 'And just what might this vested interest be?'

  Impervious to her visual daggers, Priddy continued to speak in calm, measured tones.

  'As you are doubtless well aware, it is common practice among insurance companies to diversify their liabilities. That way, when a catastrophe strikes they don't have all their eggs in one basket.'

  'But you're not an insurance company,' Dorothy-Anne pointed out inexorably.

  'Granted, we're not. But when it comes to loans, banks also like to spread the risk around. And for the exact same reason: in case of default, no one institution takes a mortal beating—'

  'Whoa! Back up there just a minute!' Dorothy-Anne interrupted heatedly, her voice, hard and serrated, slicing through Priddy's calm, emotionless delivery like a knife. 'Let me get this straight . . .'

  She trembled in outrage, and every atom of her body, thrumming with indignation, emanated mutinous affront.

  'Are you suggesting that the Hale Companies are such a risk? That we're in danger of defaulting? That we're going under?'

  'I'm suggesting no such thing,' he replied in burnished tones, without answering her question. 'I'm simply stating facts. At your request, we have already rescheduled your loans twice.'

  'A not uncommon practice, which, I might point out, has nothing to do with altruism,' Dorothy-Anne reminded him stingingly. 'This bank profits quite nicely on the interest.'

  'I'm not suggesting otherwise,' he said, slippery as an eel. 'However, unlike the Hale Companies, this bank is a publicly held corporation. As such, we have a duty, a sacred obligation, as it were, to our shareholders—'

  'Let's cut the crap, Mr. Priddy. Just put the cards on the table. What I assume you're trying to say, but have been beating around the bush about, is that you wish to sell the Hale Companies' notes to this . . . this small bank, which is supposedly'—she mimicked Sir Ian bitingly— ' 'hardly a blip on the financial radar screen.' That is what this meeting is about, isn't it?'

  'It's what I planned to discuss, yes.' He nodded. 'Except for one, er, major detail.'

  She stared at him. 'And what, may I ask, might that be?'

  Julian Priddy was looking exceedingly uncomfortable. This wasn't going at all as he had planned. Due to her bereavement, he had fully expected Dorothy-Anne to take the news sitting down—a presumption that, he now realized, had been a serious miscalculation on his part. He had failed to take into account her fighting spirit, and it was reasserting itself sooner than he had anticipated. Now what should have been a piece of cake suddenly wasn't.

  'Mr. Priddy?' Dorothy-Anne was waiting.

  Sir Ian came to his aid. 'Mrs. Cantwell, you're a businesswoman and I'm a banker, and we shall be working closely together. Please allow me. . . . What Mr. Priddy wishes to convey is that his bank no longer holds your notes. Pan Pacific's already purchased them. Fait accompli, I'm afraid. Done deal.'

  Done . . . ?

  Dorothy-Anne sat there in stunned disbelief, too shocked to put her emotions into words. She stared at Julian Priddy, who refused to meet her eye.

  The son of a bitch!

  The bile of betrayal burned raw in her throat.

  He sold me out!

  He didn't even have the decency to tell me beforehand!

  'Doesn't really change things,' Sir Ian went on easily. 'Simple matter of sending interest payments to Hong Kong. Terms're the same. Notes aren't due till June thirtieth. Time comes, we'll work on rescheduling . . .'

  But Dorothy-Anne wasn't listening. Her head spun with the concussion of the bombshell. She had a vision of structural weaknesses, of essential underpinnings giving way and the whole elaborate, interconnected entities of her empire collapsing, piece by piece, like giant dominoes racing around the world, knocking each other down, one after another, and another, and another . . .

  Death . . . miscarriage . . . outbreak . . .

  And now betrayal. That on top of everything else . . . .

  Death . . . miscarriage . . . outbreak . . . betrayal.

  As if she hadn't suffered enough direct hits already!

  Priddy moved importantly in his chair, raised his sleek head, and cleared his throat. Initially, Dorothy-Anne's verbal onslaught had caught him unprepared, but he'd quickly snapped back into his role, his self- confidence fully restored. Once again he was the banker, clothed in the vestments of power, authority, control.

  'Mrs. Cantwell,' he purred, 'surely you realize that it was strictly a business decision. You mustn't take it personally.'

  His voice breached the ramparts of her shock, switched some mental circuit breaker back on.

  Not take it personally!

  She glared at him, her contempt blazing. 'Mr. Priddy.' She rose shakily to her feet. 'I cannot help but take this personally. Extremely personally! But what is truly beyond me, what I find intolerable and most unforgivable, is that I wasn't even told! Why, common courtesy—'

  'I didn't'—Priddy cleared his throat and started over—'that is, the bank didn't. . . wish to intrude upon your grief.'

  'My grief!' she exclaimed softly. 'As an excuse, you dare bring up my grief?' She shook her head in wide-eyed amazement. 'My God! You really are one fine piece of work!'

  He smiled sourly, his lips edged in condescension. 'It seems no t
ime is better than another to break this kind of news, doesn't it?'

  She did not deign to reply.

  'Naturally, it's understandable that you're upset. I'm truly sorry, Mrs. Cantwell, but'—he shrugged and raised his hands, palm sides up— 'business is business.'

  'Yes,' Dorothy-Anne said dryly, 'it certainly is—and ethics be damned!'

  'It's perfectly legal,' Priddy sniffed, with affront.

  'No doubt it is. However, you're no longer my banker, and I've wasted enough precious time. I hope you'll excuse me.'

  Hands clenched at her sides, she turned to Sir Ian. 'I'll be in touch,' she told him, ' 'as soon as my office receives the requisite paperwork. I wish I could say it's been a pleasure.'

  Both men placed their hands on the arms of their chairs and started to get up, but Dorothy-Anne stilled them with a shake of her head.

  'Please, gentlemen,' she said, 'remain seated. I can see myself out.'

  Then, head raised, and armored in dignity, she stiffly crossed the carpet to the door and pulled it open. Hand on the knob, she paused momentarily and looked back at them.

  'Happy New Year,' she said quietly.

  Before they could answer, she was gone.

  Rennie put the Infiniti in gear. 'Upstate, Mrs. C.?'

  'What? Oh.' Dorothy-Anne shook her head. 'No, Rennie. I've changed my mind. Just drop me off uptown.'

  'At the townhouse, ma'am?'

  'That's right.'

  The double-width townhouse on East Sixty-ninth Street between Fifth and Madison was the Cantwells' primary residence and, as such, was kept fully staffed and prepared.

  On the drive there, Dorothy-Anne called Meadowlake Farm on the car phone and spoke to Nanny Florrie. 'Pack up the brood, Nanny, would you please? One of the staff can drive you down.'

  'Och! You maun we're cooting the holidays oop here short?'

  'That's exactly what I mean.' Dorothy-Anne pressed her End button, replaced the phone, and sat back, nervously clenching and unclenching her hands.

  The drive uptown seemed to take forever.