Second Love

by Gould, Judith

  32

  Just as homemakers compute the inherent savings in turning down the thermostat and clipping cents-off coupons, so top-level executives can calculate the worth of their most precious commodity: time. If, for instance, a manager is responsible for a department with $10 million in gross annual revenues, his or her time is worth a hefty $5,000 per hour. And if that same executive spends a total of a thousand hours per year on air travel, the delays and layovers common with commercially scheduled airlines can be staggeringly costly.

  Enter the corporate air force.

  Thanks to company planes, a busy executive can board an aircraft when and where he desires, take wing immediately, arrive at his destination none the worse for wear, take care of business, and fly right off again—without enduring time-, and therefore money-consuming, waits or delays.

  Even more important, the entire flight can be spent working, without distractions of any kind.

  Like other major corporations, the Hale Companies maintained their own private fleet of birds. Consisting of eleven aircraft (down from twelve since Freddie's crash), they ranged from nonjets (twin-engine King Air turboprops and a pair of Bell JetRanger helicopters), to small jets (Lear 35s), midsize jets (Citation Ills), and true heavy metal (two Gulfstream Vs, both capable of flying nonstop from New York to Tokyo with fuel to spare).

  But the pride of the fleet, as befitted a chief executive, belonged to Dorothy-Anne. Upon retiring her great-grandmother's aging 727-100, she'd traded up to a brand new Boeing 757-200. Though snidely referred to as 'Hale One,' this, the flagship of the Hale fleet, was extremely economical for its size. With only two engines, its fuel consumption was relatively frugal, while its state-of-the-art electronics required a crew of merely two in the cockpit. Yet it had a range of 3,200 miles, enough to fly nonstop across the Atlantic, and then some.

  Custom built and outfitted like a yacht, it was part business command center and part flying palace. Measuring a hair over 155 feet from nose to tail, its fuselage was divided into thirds.

  The front third contained the cockpit, a toilet, and a small passenger section with four rows of reclining, first-class seats—twenty-four in all. Here, too, began the narrow corridor that led back along the port side, much like on a railway car, with sliding doors opening into two small offices and several compact guest cabins.

  In the midsection, there was a satellite communications center, a gourmet galley, a large conference room that also served as a sit-down dining room, and Dorothy-Anne's private office.

  And here the corridor ended, for the rear third was devoted exclusively to Dorothy-Anne's private suite. Comprising a spacious salon and separate bedroom, both of which extended the full width of the jet, it was sumptuously appointed in earthy tones of beige, brown, fawn, russet, and black, a palette Coco Chanel had originated but Dorothy-Anne had unabashedly borrowed and updated.

  The salon was rich with custom-designed sofas and chairs of suede and velvet mohair, all cunningly fitted with tucked-away seat belts. The flick of a button folded or unfolded the armorial Coromandel panels that lined the entire fuselage, and hid both rows of portholes.

  Other buttons activated the intrajet intercom, the concealed television screens, the latest in sound systems, and the rheostats on the bolted- down, crystal-balustered lamps, whose shades cast subtle pools of light. And there were polychromed wood deer, permanently secured to the floor, grazing on the carpet in perpetual bliss, seemingly unaware of the king's ransom mounted on the bulkheads at either end of the salon: rare gilt-embossed Art Deco panels by Jean Duhamel, depicting Diana, the huntress, bow in hand amid a jungle of stylized foliage.

  No expense had been spared, no creature comfort overlooked.

  The beige carpet was of the plushest luxury, and every tabletop had recessed insets to hold drinks during midair turbulence. Extra soundproofing muffled the roar of the engines, reduced it to a muted whisper, and an overabundance of air jets provided unprecedented ventilation of fresh, instead of recycled, in-flight air.

  The bedroom, done in the same earth tones as the salon, would have done an apartment proud. There was a queen-size bed covered in oyster silk satin and flanked by little gilt tables, more walls of coromandel, and built -ins—vanity, large-screen TV, and VCR. Generous closets were stocked for any eventuality, from landing in a tropical paradise to attending a ball at the Ritz to putting down in subzero Greenland.

  The adjoining washroom was replete with gilt-and-rock crystal fixtures, a bidet, and a shower that doubled as a steam sauna.

  All in all, something special in the air.

  During takeoff, Dorothy-Anne remained in her suite and kept the coromandel screens shut, as if cocooning herself from the snowy world outside, and concentrated on the printout of Hale Hotels' computerized, twenty-four-hour worldwide occupancy report.

  She felt dizzy, almost physically ill and panicked, as the jet hurtled down the runway and ascended steeply into the air. The sensation of leaving the ground and suddenly being airborne felt unnatural, heightened her awareness that fragile metal wings and jet propulsion were all that stood between streaking forward and—

  No! she told herself firmly. I mustn't dwell on that.

  Squeezing her eyes shut, Dorothy-Anne gripped the arm of the couch with one hand, and crushed a chamois cushion with the other. She broke out in a cold sweat, gasping for breath.

  Ever since Freddie's crash, a feeling of doom seized her during every takeoff and landing. The only exceptions had been the flight from San Francisco to Aspen, followed by the flight to New York with Freddie's casket.

  On both occasions a doctor had given her tranquilizers.

  Now, as had become her habit, she reiterated Franklin D. Roosevelt's famous words: 'The only thing we have to fear is fear itself . . . . The only thing I have to fear is fear itself . . . .'

  She wondered if anyone had an inkling how terrified she had become of flying. Or, for that matter, of going on living.

  There's nothing that doesn't scare me anymore. Everything else is just an act.

  What she found amazing was that nobody saw through it.

  But then, how could they? She never gave them a chance.

  Like now. Citing a desire for privacy, she had locked herself in her suite, where she'd remain until the worst of the bile and fear had passed, until her breathing stabilized.

  While Dorothy-Anne battled her fears at the rear of the jet, Venetia and Derek, occupying one guest cabin apiece, were reviewing their departments' reports on their laptops.

  Ditto the rest of the passengers, who were ensconced in the leather seats in the forward section, where they flipped through reports or studied the screens of their laptops, like students cramming for exams.

  Except Cecilia.

  As the 757-200 climbed diagonally through the snow and thick banks of clouds, she hit the buckle of her seat belt, got up, and hurried midship to inspect the conference room, where two stewards were busy arranging the table.

  Cecilia's perfectionist's gaze did a swift visual inventory. Laptop computers, calculators, pens, notepads. Blind Earl cups and saucers. Sparkling cut-crystal tumblers, bottles of Evian spring water. All were neatly aligned at the fourteen places set at the glossy, zebrawood extension table.

  Oberto, the white-gloved chief steward, appeared at her elbow. 'Is everything to your satisfaction, Ms. Rosen?' he inquired politely.

  Though the jet was officially his domain, he bowed to her superior judgment when it came to the conference room and on-board offices.

  Cecilia looked around once more and gave a single brisk nod. 'Yes, Oberto. Thank you.'

  'Should I escort our passengers in now?'

  'Yes, thank you,' Cecilia said. 'But I'll inform Ms. Flood and Mr. Fleetwood personally. As soon as everyone's seated, you may call Mrs. Cantwell and tell her we're ready whenever she is.'

  'Yes, ma'am.' He left and walked to the front of the plane.

  At that moment, the jet burst through the clouds and sunlight�
�� bright, dazzling, delectable—streamed in through the portholes. Momentarily distracted, Cecilia approached the nearest porthole and peered out. The sky was the precise shade of Wedgwood blue, and the blanket of cotton below was not only impossibly white and airy but immaculately, irreproachably, bleached and fluffed.

  Then, losing no more time, Cecilia went to summon Derek and Venetia. When she returned, she stood aside as the briefcase- and report-toting passengers filed aft.

  Cecilia watched them take the same places around the table as they would have in the Hale Companies' conference room. Bernie Appledorf and Arne Mankoff the seats nearest the head of the table. Derek and Venetia the next ones down. Then Yoshi Yamada, Kurt Ackerman, and Kevin Armour. Heather Solis and Owen Beard. Mark Levy, Truman Weaver, and Lana Valentine.

  Plus the two new faces. A handsome young black executive named Marvin Short, who was filling in for Paul Weekley, and Karen Yee, an exceedingly petite and exceedingly pretty Amerasian sitting in for Wilson Cattani.

  Cecilia pointed out which of the two empty places their superiors would have occupied. Meanwhile, briefcases were being unsnapped, printout and reports produced, floppy disks fed into laptops.

  Pen and steno pad at the ready, Cecilia took a seat on the sidelines.

  Oberto reappeared at the door. 'I just spoke with Mrs. Cantwell,' he said. 'She said to tell you she would be detained a few minutes.'

  There was a communal sigh of relief. This hastily called meeting was ominous enough, but Dorothy-Anne's delay permitted additional precious cramming, praise God!

  Ten minutes later, Dorothy-Anne came in carrying a thick pile of computer printout under one arm. She looked so supremely poised and in command, so utterly calm, cool, and collected, that no one would have guessed this very same woman had, during takeoff, locked herself in her suite and been a hopeless nervous wreck.

  There was a rustle at the table as the men and women quickly rose to their feet.

  'Sorry to have kept you waiting,' Dorothy-Anne apologized, depositing the pile of printout on the table. 'Please, be seated.'

  She took her own presiding place at the head of the table and waited for a steward to fill the coffee cups from a silver pot. Only once he was gone, and had shut the door behind him, did she open the meeting.

  'First, I want to thank you all for accompanying me on such short notice,' she said, looking around, 'and I apologize for any inconvenience I might have caused you. However, I believe you will appreciate the importance of this meeting.'

  She paused, took a sip of black coffee, and put the cup back down. She was frowning slightly.

  'I notice there are two faces I'm only vaguely familiar with,' she said.

  The young black man spoke up first. 'Marvin Short from Hale Lines, Mrs. Cantwell.'

  Dorothy-Anne held his gaze. 'And Mr. Weekley is . . . ?'

  'Inspecting one of the ships, ma'am.'

  'Oh? And which one might that be?'

  'The Hale Holiday.'

  Dorothy-Anne looked thoughtful. 'The Holiday. . . the Holiday. . . Correct me if I'm wrong,' she said slowly, 'but isn't the Holiday currently cruising the eastern Caribbean?'

  'Yes, ma'am.'

  'On ten-day cruises out of Fort Lauderdale, if I'm not mistaken,' she murmured. 'And how long is Mr. Weekley gone for?'

  He shifted uncomfortably. 'Ten days, ma'am.'

  'Ah. You mean he's on vacation.'

  'No, ma'am. He said—'

  'Never mind what he said.' Dorothy-Anne's voice came a little colder. 'I think I get the idea. He's enjoying a ten-day cruise on company time. That is what it amounts to, isn't it?'

  Marvin, enduring Dorothy-Anne's pinpoint gaze, wished he were anywhere else—even Timbuktu was preferable—just so long as he wasn't right here, right now.

  Sensing his discomfort, Dorothy-Anne took pity on him. The poor kid, she thought. It's not his fault.

  Nor, she reminded herself, was he a kid. Youthfully handsome, yes, but he had to be in his mid-thirties.

  'Well, that should be easy enough to check,' she said.

  She leaned forward and switched on the laptop in front of her.

  Almost instantly, crisp graphics in all spectrums of the rainbow jumped onto the screen. Fingers flying, she nimbly daubed the keys, expertly accessing Menu, Submenu, Division, Category.

  'Here's the Hale Line,' she murmured, bringing it up on her screen. 'Now for the Holiday . . .'

  She tapped some more keys.

  'And there she is. Sixty-seven thousand tons, et cetera, et cetera .. . scheduled to put into Barbados a.m. tomorrow. Now to take a gander at the passenger manifest . . . '

  She scrolled through it, the two thousand alphabetized names flying upward in an incandescent burst of a blur. Then she slowed.

  U's, V's, W's.

  'Ah,' she said. 'Here we are. Weekley, Paul, Mr.'

  Taking her finger off the key, Dorothy-Anne sat back and eyed the information that glowed accusingly.

  'Cross-indexed with a Ms. Tracie Himmel,' she read aloud, 'price code C4631, which translates into official comps . . . Sun Deck suite with private verandah . . .'

  She shook her head chidingly.

  'He does like his luxuries, our naughty Mr. Weekley.'

  Marvin Short merely sat there, wishing himself invisible.

  'Tracie Himmel . . . Tracie Himmel,' Dorothy-Anne mused aloud. She drummed her fingernails on the glossy tabletop. 'Now where have I heard that name before?'

  She shot a questioning look at Marvin, who shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

  'Is she an employee?'

  He inflated his cheeks, held the air in, and exhaled slowly.

  'You needn't worry about disloyalty, Mr. Short. You're not ratting on your boss. He made his own bed. All I'm asking is a straightforward question, and all I expect is an honest answer.'

  Swallowing, he said miserably, 'She's his secretary.'

  Dorothy-Anne, no gourmand of unpleasant situations, made a face of distaste. 'Oh. I see,' she said. 'Yes. I do see.'

  She felt repulsed by the trivial sordidness, the embarrassing ordinariness of a boss faking a business trip in order to have a fling with his secretary. How unoriginal could one get? Yet why should she be surprised? Interoffice affairs, however frowned upon, were as old as the hills.

  But to flaunt such behavior! Dorothy-Anne thought. To take advantage of the company and, in effect, flip me the birdie!

  Yet she quailed against the action required of her—the fallout he himself had provoked. Like a dedicated surgeon, she drew no satisfaction from discovering a malignant tumor. On the contrary. If it hadn't been there in the first place, it wouldn't require surgical excision, dammit!

  But what choice did she have?

  He's given me no choice, Dorothy-Anne thought grimly. I have to make an example of him. If I don't, I'll be considered a pushover, and others will try to get away with—whatever.

  Yes. She had to nip it in the bud. Now, while it was still fresh.

  'Cecilia,' she said wearily, 'prepare a letter of termination. Mr. Weekley is fired, effective immediately. Both he and Ms. Himmel are to disembark at Barbados. As soon as I've signed it, fax it to the Holiday.'

  Cecilia made a note of it. 'Will do.'

  'Also, prepare a separate fax for the Holiday's purser. It should clearly state that Mr. Weekley is no longer permitted to sign for anything on board. That includes the bar and the casino.' She tightened her lips. 'He's enjoyed all the freebies he's going to get.'

  'I'll take care of it.' Cecilia nodded.

  'Oh, and check and see if Ms. Himmel is on vacation time. If she isn't . . . well, let's hope for her sake that she is.'

  'What about Mr. Weekley's corporate credit cards.'

  'I'm glad you reminded me. Cancel them. At once.'

  'Right.'

  With that unpleasant business out of the way, Dorothy-Anne focused her attention on the Amerasian woman.

  'And you are . . . ?'

  'Karen Yee. From
the Hotel and Motel Management School.'

  'I take it Mr. Cattani couldn't make it?'

  'No, ma'am. He's at Sloan-Kettering.'

  'Sloan-Kettering! Good lord. I had no idea he's ill!'

  'He isn't. It's his wife. She's undergoing treatment for stomach cancer.'

  Dorothy-Anne winced, her own recent bout of cervical cancer all too fresh in her mind. 'How is she doing?'

  Karen Yee sighed. 'Not very well, I'm afraid. They're doing what they can, but . . . ' She shrugged expressively.

  Dorothy-Anne nodded. In other words, it's terminal.

  'I understand,' she said softly. 'Cecilia, see to it that two floral arrangements are sent. One from the company, the other from me personally.' Then, turning back to Karen Yee: 'Is our medical coverage adequate for her treatment?'

  'I . . . I'm really not sure . . . ' 'Find out. Then let me know at once.' 'Yes, ma'am. I'm certain Mr. Cattani will appreci—' Dorothy-Anne cut her off by clearing her throat. 'We've wasted enough time.' She placed her hands flat on the table and looked around. 'Let's get started, shall we?'

  33

  Rain drummed on the roof of his cruiser as Sheriff Otis Mosbey stared out past the streaky arcs cleared by his windshield wipers. Flashing red lights from a variety of emergency vehicles reflected off the wet pavement of this usually quiet stretch of Route 18, some thirty-five miles south of Atlanta near Zebulon, Georgia. It was already getting dark, and they turned the twilight a hellish pulsating red, like the strobe lights of some demonic dance club.

  The crackle of disembodied voices and bursts of static from the various radios added to the surreal atmosphere.

  Besides his own cruiser, Sheriff Mosbey could see his deputy's patrol car, an ambulance, a fire truck, a tow truck, and two cars belonging to the divers. They had converged on this side of the bridge spanning the Flint River after two kids reported glimpsing a submerged car while fishing.

  With the exception of the tow truck, all the vehicles had been parked facing the river, their high beams aimed, like makeshift floodlights, at the dark, rain-dimpled water.