Second Love

by Gould, Judith

  Gloria doubted that. Well, sentimental and old, maybe. But a fool? No one would ever mistake Althea for one of those.

  The old lady looked at her directly. 'I know what you're thinking. That no one would dare call me that.' She smiled slightly. 'At least, not to my face.'

  The servant returned carrying a big silver tray. The mineral water and Cabernet were in bottles, the glasses were cut crystal, and the ice was in a separate silver bucket. As the guest, Gloria was served first. Then came the wine-tasting ritual.

  'Lovely,' Althea pronounced, after savoring the bouquet and lingering, opulent taste. 'An excellent vintage. Thank you, Henry.'

  He left and they sat silently for a few minutes.

  'It really is a pity,' Althea said wistfully. 'When I was a child, the cascades were always flowing. You can't imagine how magical it was. Like something out of a dream.'

  The old lady took another sip of her wine.

  'But that was before Silicon Valley. Before the Bay Area's population explosion. Before the curse of water conservation!'

  'Which is not going to go away,' Gloria pointed out. 'If anything, the chronic water shortage will only get worse.'

  'As if the same water pumped over and over is such an extravagance! Really. Sometimes I wonder what the world has come to.'

  'If you miss the cascades so much, why don't you arrange for tankers to come and fill them? That's what they do with swimming pools.'

  Althea shook her head. 'That's out of the question. It would send the wrong message, and could jeopardize Hunt's entire future. As it is, great wealth can be a terrible handicap politically.'

  Gloria begged to differ, but didn't. She really wasn't in the mood to argue. All she wanted was to get lunch over with, suffer through whatever Althea had summoned her here for, and get the hell back to the city.

  Althea was looking at her directly. 'Of course, I realize it's all a matter of impressions,' she went on. 'But then, one mustn't underestimate their importance. Impressions really do count for so much.' She smiled brightly. 'Don't you agree, my dear?'

  Warning bells went off in Gloria's head. Here comes, she thought, sipping her water. No more beating around the bush. We're finally getting to the nitty-gritty.

  Althea's talent for steering a conversation exactly where she wanted never ceased to amaze people. But not Gloria. Nothing her mother-in- law said or did could surprise her any longer. She'd seen it all.

  The old lady came right to the point. 'While we're on the subject of impressions, there's something important we need to discuss.' Her voice was firm but smooth, and implied she would brook no argument. 'It pertains to you and my son.'

  Gloria put a lid on her anger. She didn't know how Althea did it, but the old dragon always managed to put her down. Like referring to Hunt as 'my son.' Making it clear a daughter-in-law was exactly that: an in-law, not a blood relation.

  As if I need constant reminding, Gloria thought bitterly.

  'What about Hunt and me?' she asked warily.

  'Well, it's hardly a secret that things have lately been . . . shall we say, unusually difficult between the two of you?'

  Difficult! Gloria scowled at her. If that wasn't the understatement of all time!

  'But those kinds of problems are only to be expected,' Althea said, so indifferently they might have been discussing the weather in some remote part of the world. 'What marriage doesn't have its ups and downs?'

  'That's just it, Mother Winslow.' Gloria's voice small and tight. 'Our marriage doesn't have any ups! It's all downs.'

  Althea fixed her with those cold, cobalt blue eyes. 'Please, dear. Hear me out before you get yourself all worked up. That's not asking for too much, is it?'

  Gloria sighed and shifted sulkily in her chair. The opened bottle of wine was in her direct line of vision. She eyed it longingly, thinking: I could sure use a drink right about now.

  'It's been months now since you and my son have last been seen together in public,' Althea said. 'It is generating talk. People are starting to speculate. It's time to stop the rumors before they get out of hand.'

  'I wasn't aware that anyone showed much interest in us.'

  'Poppycock! You know they do. Family values have become all the rage these days. A wife can be a politician's most valuable asset . . . or his worst liability. If you continue to stay out of the picture, I'll have to presume the worst.'

  The breeze died down and the sun was suddenly too hot. The scent of roses overwhelmed: too many sweet, intermingled fragrances were making Gloria nauseous. She pressed the cool sweating glass of water against her temple and rolled it slowly back and forth across her forehead.

  Althea said: 'As you know, Hunt has always run as an Independent candidate. However, that's likely to change in the very near future.'

  This was news to Gloria. Her husband had always taken great pride in being the gadfly in both the Democrats' and the Republicans' ointment. He ran successfully on his own platform and was answerable to no political machine, no business interests, and no lobbyists. He was the people's candidate—and proud of it.

  'Are you certain?' she asked. Much as she loathed Hunt as a husband, she grudgingly admired his political integrity. 'Did he tell you that?'

  'He didn't have to,' Althea said crisply. 'I have my own sources. Suffice it to say he'll soon receive an offer he can't refuse.'

  'I'll believe that when I see it. Mother Winslow, I know Hunt. He can't be bought.'

  'He won't have to be. Both parties are willing to bend over backward. And well they should. All the polls indicate he's the most trusted politician in the state.'

  Gloria stared at her without speaking.

  'Now that you know what's at stake, I'm sure you can understand why it's so imperative you toe the line,' Althea continued. 'It's essential . . . for my son's future and this country's.'

  Her gaze was so intense that her eyes seemed to bore, like whirring drill bits, straight into Gloria's, and her manner, speech, and expression were cool, powerful, competent, and direct.

  She added: 'Just so that we understand each other, I'm asking you to make a special effort.'

  Althea asking for something? Gloria very nearly laughed aloud. That's rich, she thought. Althea never asks! She demands—even if her orders are couched in politesse!

  'Aren't you forgetting something, Mother Winslow?' she asked quietly.

  'Not that I'm aware of.'

  Gloria chuckled humorlessly. 'Well, the last I heard, it takes two to tango.'

  'Please get to the point, my dear.'

  Gloria stared sullenly back at her. God, she thought, what I wouldn't give for a drink.

  'The point being, Mother Winslow, shouldn't you be having this conversation with Hunt?'

  'I fully intend to. As soon as he returns from Mexico.'

  So that's where he is. 'And you really think he'll listen?'

  'Once he grasps the magnitude of the situation, yes,' Althea said briskly, 'I do. But what I'd like from you is your assurance that you'll at least try to meet him halfway.'

  Gloria let out a deep sigh. 'Even if I do, it won't be of any use.' Her voice was harsh. 'Hunt can't stand the sight of me!'

  'Well, don't you think that could have something to do with your having been . . . ah .. . under the weather for so long?'

  'Under the weather!' Gloria chortled. 'That's a good one!' She glared angrily. 'You want to call me a drunk, but you can't bring yourself to say the word, can you?'

  'Really, my dear—'

  But Gloria wasn't finished. 'I'm a boozer, Mother Winslow! Your daughter-in-law's a common al-co-hol-ic! Can't you say it?'

  Althea waved off the outburst with an airy hand. 'Call yourself what you will. The fact that you're much improved speaks for itself . . . as does this discussion.'

  'Oh?' Gloria eyed her narrowly. 'And how's that?'

  Althea looked at her coldly. 'If I thought you were such a hopeless case, would I be wasting my time having this talk?'

  'Gee, tha
nks for the vote of confidence!'

  'You can take it whichever way you like,' the old lady said dryly. 'A pat on the back or a kick in the fanny. It's up to you.'

  A wild, unholy gleam suddenly danced in Gloria's eyes. 'Would you care to know the real reason why I've been drinking less, Mother Winslow?'

  Althea looked away; she really didn't want to hear it.

  Gloria leaned forward. 'Well, I'll tell you anyway, Mother Winslow! It's because, for the past several months, I haven't been pretending to be the adoring, photogenic wife! It's because I haven't been pretending to have a handsome, loving husband!' Her lips curled into a sneer. 'Hell, I haven't even pretended to have a marriage—period!'

  Althea's face remained impassive.

  Gloria stared at her. 'Don't you see, Mother Winslow? For the first time in years I've been totally honest with myself!'

  'In my experience,' Althea said, 'honesty is a matter of . . . degrees. But rather than get into a philosophical debate, why don't we stick to the subject at hand?'

  'Like pulling the wool over the public's eye, you mean.'

  'Call it what you will. However, if you agree to play ball, I can promise you one thing. You won't be sorry.'

  'In other words, you've already made up your mind that you've hooked me. Is that it?'

  'I believe you'll do the sensible thing'—Althea nodded—'yes.'

  Gloria laughed bitterly. 'Tell me something, Mother Winslow. Is there anything, or anyone, you think can't be bent to your will?'

  Althea looked surprised. 'Why, no,' she said brightly. 'I don't suppose there is!'

  Gloria let it go. She should have known. Try as she might, she just couldn't get through. A mile-wide chasm separated her from her mother- in-law, and never the twain would meet.

  'Ah!' announced Althea in her best hostess voice. 'Here comes lunch.'

  Gloria turned toward the house. Sure enough. There was Withams, leading two servants carrying domed silver trays across the lawn.

  'Why don't we move to the table,' Althea suggested smoothly.

  She picked up Violetta, rose to her feet, and put the dog back down on the fauteuil. Then, in a rare gesture of friendliness, she took Gloria by the arm.

  'It should prove to be quite an interesting meal,' she confided. 'My chef is retiring, and I'm testing a replacement.'

  'What did you have him make? Boeuf Bourguignonne and baked Alaska?'

  'Actually, I asked him to do a roast chicken.'

  Gloria stared at her. 'And that's a test?' she snickered. 'You can't be serious!'

  'Oh, but I am. Did you know that roast chicken, done to just the proper turn, is one of the most difficult of all dishes to get right?'

  Gloria didn't, nor could she care less. 'I'll have wine with lunch,' she said, testing the waters. 'That is, if you don't mind?'

  Althea patted her arm. 'My dear child. So long as it's drunk in moderation, why would I?'

  That was sure a turnaround.

  She must want my help real badly.

  It was an hour and a half later. Althea, in yet another uncharacteristic display of friendliness, walked Gloria to the car. The chauffeur was holding the rear door open, and the three Pekingese obediently stayed on the lawn, daintily sniffing at shrubs. One of them hiked its leg.

  'Thanks for the lunch, Mother Winslow. I really enjoyed it,' Gloria lied, air-kissing both of the old lady's cheeks.

  Althea smiled. 'I'm so glad, my dear. We'll do it again sometime soon.'

  Then the smile disappeared and Althea's face underwent a dramatic change. Gone now was any pretense at conviviality. This was the Althea with whom Gloria was used to dealing.

  'You will think about what we discussed, won't you, my dear?'

  'Of course, Mother Winslow,' Gloria said, although her mind was already made up. It'll be a cold day in hell before Hunt sees my help!

  The old lady seemed to read her mind. 'I really would consider it carefully,' she urged, dropping her voice so the chauffeur couldn't overhear.

  She stared hard into Gloria's eyes.

  'I don't ask for many favors. When I do, I tend to reward them generously.'

  Left unsaid was that the opposite also held true. But then, Althea didn't need to spell that out. Gloria was only too familiar with her mother-in-law's methods. It was stick and carrot all the way.

  'Do think about it, my dear.'

  'Yes, Mother Winslow. I will.'

  'That's all I ask. Good-bye, my dear.'

  Gloria started to duck into the car. She was almost inside when she paused and looked back over her shoulder. 'Oh, by the way, Mother Winslow. You never did say whether or not you're going to hire the new chef.'

  Althea frowned slightly. 'I don't believe I will.' She shook her head. 'No.'

  'But the chicken was delicious!'

  'Granted, it was golden brown and crisp on the outside,' Althea allowed, 'and juicy and buttery on the inside.'

  'Then what was wrong with it?'

  'My dear child, didn't you notice?'

  Gloria blinked. Notice? Notice what?

  'It was slightly overcooked.'

  'Ah. Of course.' Gloria climbed on into the car, thinking, That's Althea for you. Talk about a chef lucking out!

  'I'll be in touch after I speak to Hunt,' Althea said in parting. Then she stepped back so the chauffeur could shut the rear door.

  Gloria raised a hand and waved from the other side of the glass. The instant the car was moving, she raided the built-in bar. She didn't bother with a glass, but drank the vodka straight from the heavy crystal decanter.

  Some of it dribbled down her chin, but she couldn't care less. Lunch was over, thank God! For a while there, she'd been afraid it might never end.

  She took another swig, replaced the decanter, and wiped her chin. Then, picking up the car phone, she punched the by now familiar number.

  There was no answer, but the machine picked up on the fourth ring. 'Talk to me,' Christos's recorded voice said.

  Gloria waited for the beep. She said, 'It's me, Glo. I've been through the wringer and could use some TLC. I'll be at the usual place within the hour.'

  Althea remained in the drive and followed the limousine's progress as it crunched around the big dry water fountain. Only once the allée of copper beeches swallowed it in its maw did she make her way back toward the House, her three Pekingese underfoot.

  There, she thought. Gloria's gotten the message loud and clear. Hopefully her daughter-in-law would act accordingly. If she doesn't, I'll just have to apply more pressure.

  Althea hoped it wouldn't come to that. But if it did, she was ready.

  38

  Lunchtime on the beach at Huatulco.

  Dorothy-Anne had a table under the thatched-roofed palapas at water's edge, but she drew no enjoyment or satisfaction from the splendid view. Reality, in the form of the previous night's occupancy reports, which had been faxed to her from White Plains, had popped the insular bubble of her earlier sense of well-being.

  She felt leaden, drained, numb. The bounce with which she'd awakened had deserted her. Even the beachfront table and the perfection of the cloudless sky could not lift her sagging spirits. Everywhere she looked, her experienced hotelier's gaze found reason to be depressed.

  Like an evacuated vacation spot in the path of an approaching hurricane, the great crescent-shaped bay around the Hale Hotel and Resort was dishearteningly lifeless. There were only two windsurfers skimming the bright blue waves and a half dozen swimmers in the crystal clear water. The number of sun worshipers soaking up the rays could be counted on both hands. In the distance, a single speedboat pulled a lone water-skier across the vast bay.

  The turnout wasn't much better at the beachfront dining area. Unoccupied tables outnumbered the occupied ones three to one.

  A grim legacy of the bacterial outbreak.

  This joint is definitely not jumping, Dorothy-Anne thought gloomily, dipping a finger in her glass of iced tea and stirring the cubes despondently. If i
t gets any less lively, it'll become a ghost resort.

  'Mind if I join you?'

  Dorothy-Anne looked up. Venetia was wearing a white tube top and white linen trousers. Plus big, white, plastic-rimmed Jackie O. sunglasses and heeled white sandals. She had a local straw tote slung over one bare shoulder.

  'Make yourself comfortable,' Dorothy-Anne invited. 'I can use the diversion.'

  She licked iced tea off her finger and glanced around broodingly.

  'You can amuse me . . . help take my mind off the lack of customers.'

  'Honey, that is one tall order. But you know me. If there's a challenge, this girl is up to it!'

  Venetia pulled out a chair, flung her straw bag across the back, and folded her elongated body onto the seat. As usual, her every movement had a regal, unstudied, and wholly unself-conscious grace.

  'So,' she said cheerfully. 'What's up?'

  'You mean, what isn't,' Dorothy-Anne growled. 'And, since you're so damn chipper, I'd like to hear your spin on this turnout. Hmmmmm?'

  She fell silent as an exceptionally handsome, exceptionally young, dark-haired waiter came to take Venetia's order.

  'Hel-lo-oh! And who is this?' Venetia murmured, very slowly pulling down her shades and looking up over the tops of the frames at him. 'Do you think he's of statutory age?'

  'Oh, stop,' Dorothy-Anne said, a trifle impatient. 'Since when have you started robbing the cradle? Anyway, I thought you liked older men.'

  'Girl, what can I tell you? Tastes change.'

  'Senorita?' the waiter asked. 'Would you like something?'

  Venetia sighed. 'Child, what I would like and what I can get are two entirely different things.'

  He looked puzzled. 'Senorita?'

  'I'll have a martini,' Venetia said. Then, remembering she was in the land of tequila, she changed her mind. 'On second thought, scratch that. Make it a margarita. With tons of salt.'

  'Salt!' Dorothy-Anne exclaimed. 'I thought you'd cut down on your sodium intake!'

  'Girl, will you hush? You're making me sound old! Besides, a margarita without salt is like'—Venetia grinned wickedly—'sex without orgasm,' she whispered, with a giggle. 'It just wouldn't be a margarita.'