Here, brutally pruned sticks, like ugly amputees grafted with donor limbs. There, slender prickly green stalks, some with leaves and buds. And everywhere, many—too, too many by far—in gloriously full, funeral-ready bloom.
He winced against the association, but it stuck. And how could it not?
For even the potent stench of manure, the very worst manure he'd ever had the displeasure to smell—and he hadn't known, not really (why should he?) that all manure did not smell unlike—was unable to overpower the organic, earthy odors of chlorophyll and potting soil, all under laid by the richly sweet, cloying fetor of rot.
Sir Ian diverted his gaze. He glanced up through the churchlike arches of the glass ceiling, then longingly over toward the far wall where, he sensed, outside the glass panes a clear day would permit the lung tao to survey his dual domains—the immediate property, with the level backyard of pool and garden, and the greater realm beyond the panoramic drop-off, where all Hong Kong awaited—a vast carcass ripe for continued plucking.
But all that was visible today were the clouds. They pressed against the glass like a fog bank, as though they had been provided specifically to shroud this meeting in secrecy.
Meeting! What meeting? he thought, certain he was alone, brought here expressly to endure yet another round of humiliation.
But this was too much! Puffing himself up with dignity, he started back toward the door when—Snick!—a metallic, man-made sound carried from nearby.
Curious, he changed course, carefully threading his way forward through the maze of etageres, arms raised protectively against the thorny branches. He cursed under his breath as he pushed blooms out of his face, as thorns caught on the sleeves of his chalk-striped black suit . . . his beautiful, new, soon-to-be-ruined suit if he didn't get the hell out of this wretchedly hot atmosphere of stifling dampness and excrement and cloying sweetness!
Christ! Was a worse combination of smells possible?
He thought, Surely not, and hoped his suit would not absorb the odors, or that if it did, the cleaners could get it out.
He was feeling decidedly wilted. Runnels of sweat were trickling down his forehead, beads of sweat were popping out above his upper lip, a veritable flood of sweat was sluicing down his back. Already, his shirt was plastered to his shoulders.
And his eyes! They burned from the pungent stench and brimmed with tears, but all the same he became aware of the colors. Such a startling variety they were. Rose blossoms in sugar white, lemon yellow, sunny yellow, cognac, and brass. Roses in tangerine, coral, ruby-edged ivory, lavender, raspberry, scarlet, crimson, blood.
The spectrum seemed endless.
As did their shapes.
Eventually he came upon a wooden potting table where perfectly pruned rose standards, like colorful floral poodles, stood in a row. And there behind it, dwarfed by the shrubs, was the old lung tao. In black pajamas. Pruners in hand.
He was gardening—frigging gardening!
Sir Ian's chubby face turned scarlet with anger. He couldn't believe it.
All the time I've been kept waiting, he's been bleeding gardening!
The insult burned like a slap in the face.
Looking up, the old man affected a look of surprise. Then he bowed graciously.
'Sir Ian,' he said in his accented, singsong English. 'I am honored by your presence in my house.'
Handkerchief still pressed to his face, Sir Ian returned the bow and rattled off the standard reply: 'I thank the Honorable Kuo for his gracious hospitality.'
As always, he was amazed that this tiny ancient, with his wispy white hair, scraggly goatee, and wizened skin the color of golden rum, should wield such enormous power.
The old man gestured with a liver-spotted hand. 'I see you are unused to the smell. I beg a thousand pardons. I forget that not everyone is used to it.'
'Never smelled anything like it,' Sir Ian admitted, coming around the table. 'What the devil is it?'
The lung tao smiled. 'The best fertilizer in the world for roses, chicken dung.'
Sir Ian grimaced. No wonder it stinks to high heaven!
'It is ironic, is it not, that cultivating beauty should depend upon something so vile?' The old man stroked his goatee and regarded Sir Ian with a knowing look. 'But it is so throughout nature. The most exquisite delights and delicacies require rot and excrement. Consider shellfish. Do they not feed upon the very bottom of the sea?'
'Can't argue with that, can I?'
The old man turned to a bush of long-stemmed, big-blossomed roses. At first glance they appeared white, but were actually the very palest of pinks, with pale apricot centers. Selecting a bloom, he used his pruners to snip off a stem, then held it up to the light and rotated it to inspect its translucent quality. He looked at Sir Ian inquiringly.
'Tell me, Sir Ian. Are you fond of roses?'
'Don't know much about them, I'm afraid. 'Rose is a rose is a rose,' and all that.'
The lung tao nodded. 'This is my very own hybrid,' he said, of the rose in his hand. 'I named it Sun Cloud, after my eldest grandchild.'
He snipped the stem to within two inches, and stripped off a thorn with a horned thumbnail the color of tortoiseshell. Then he proffered the rose to Sir Ian.
'For your buttonhole,' he said humbly.
Sir Ian accepted it. 'I thank you for so personal a gift.' Etiquette demanded graciousness, and he had no choice but to wear the boutonniere. But to get it on his lapel required both hands. Reluctantly he pocketed his handkerchief.
Without it, the stench threatened to overwhelm. He nearly reeled, but managed to slip the rose through the buttonhole.
'How's it look? A bit formal, isn't it?'
'Not at all.' Kuo Fong allowed himself a faint smile. 'You are kind to humor an old man. Now come. Walk with me—I must inspect my hybrids. We have urgent business to discuss.'
'As always, I am at the lung tao's service.'
As they moved among the roses, Kuo Fong deadheaded blooms by pinching them between his thumb and index finger. 'You are to take the next available flight to New York. Make no appointment. Give no warning whatsoever. Simply show up.'
The lung tao stopped beside a hybrid tea rose with pointy, pure white petals with vivid pink streaks and violet edges.
'This is Heavenly Flower. It is the most recent result of my hybridizing. I named it in honor of my youngest granddaughter, of whom I am most fond.'
They moved on.
'This trip to New York,' Sir Ian said. 'What's it entail? Whom am I to see?'
The old man stopped walking and turned and looked up at him directly. 'Mrs. Cantwell of the Hale Companies.'
'And the purpose of this unexpected visit?'
Something crafty flashed in the depths of Kuo Fong's eyes. 'You are to put a proposal before her. I will give you the details momentarily. But first, there is another rose I wish to show you . . . .'
Sir Ian followed the old man. Now I get it, he thought. It's about the loans. I'm to be the hatchet man.
He wasn't looking forward to it. At best, it would be a highly unpleasant experience. And at worst . . .
But he wouldn't think about that now. He had no choice in the matter. At any rate, it beat the alternative.
At least I'm not the one being axed. I'd rather be a hatchet man any day.
44
Dorothy-Anne was subdued. This was hardly her first visit to her husband's pet project, but in the past she had always been accompanied by him. Eden Isle had, after all, been Freddie's brainchild. As such, she had been careful to remain in the background, letting him call the shots.
And now it was up to her to see it through to completion.
She looked around his office in the air-conditioned Quonset hut. It was spare, masculine, utilitarian.
Everywhere, form followed function.
It was evident in the plain metal filing cabinets and the cork boards, pinned with blueprints, that were propped along both curved walls; in the L-shaped desk in front of the wi
ndow at the end wall; in the gray metal swivel chair behind it and the semicircle of stackable resin chairs facing it.
The surface of the desk was free of clutter, the way Freddie liked it. The short end of the L held his computer, keyboard, and printer. On the longer surface were a blotter, an executive pen set, a desk lamp, and several telephones. The sole decorative touch was a framed photograph of Dorothy-Anne and the children.
The poignancy of it brought tears to Dorothy-Anne's eyes.
The wall opposite the windows was fitted with three identical doors. The one in the center, Dorothy-Anne knew, led out to a communal office packed with workstations. At the moment, it held no interest for her.
Instead, she opened the door on the right and walked into a compact bathroom. It contained a sink, a toilet, and a fiberglass shower stall. Clean white towels hung from a chrome bar, and the shelf above the sink still held Freddie's electric toothbrush, half a tube of toothpaste, a can of shaving cream, and his ivory-handled straight razor.
As if he was expected to return at any moment.
But Freddie is never coming back, Dorothy-Anne reminded herself soberly. He's gone for good. It's time I packed up his personal belongings.
She walked back out and closed the door quietly behind her. Hunt, she noticed, had his back turned. He was leaning forward, hands folded in the small of his spine, pretending keen interest in some tacked-up blueprints.
He doesn't want to intrude on my privacy.
Dorothy-Anne was grateful for his tact. He clearly sensed how difficult this was for her.
Suddenly she was glad he had come along. I'm not alone, she told herself. That's the most important thing.
The door on the left led to the bedroom where Freddie had slept whenever he'd spent the night here. Dorothy-Anne opened the door and went inside.
For a moment she stood there, trembling, as she looked around. The cot was neatly made, and on the narrow, gray metal hanging locker was Freddie's hard hat, the yellow one with his name stenciled across the front.
Seeing it triggered a series of split-second images, fleeting as the lighted windows of a train rushing in the opposite direction. She could see Freddie trying it on, adjusting it various ridiculous ways, his face grinning. What a handsome, playful devil he had been! Small wonder she had loved him so much, missed him so dreadfully . . .
As if watching herself on film, she relived her first trip to Eden Isle. Freddie was leading her by the hand, rushing her through the junglelike growth, pointing excitedly here, there, everywhere, weaving a dream world out of words and gestures.
And the memories kept coming, flashing at her with painful clarity.
She was fully clothed and Freddie was pulling her into the sparkling water of a hidden pool, the white ribbon of waterfall drowning out her squeals. Then they were kissing and ripping off each other's clothes and making urgent, passionate love.
The scene was so vivid that Dorothy-Anne cried out his name.
'Freddie!'
But his presence was ephemeral, and the mental film strips began to fade. Now all that was left was the knowledge that these were but memories.
Memories . . .
Dorothy-Anne quickly shut the locker, then left the room and closed the door. She was weeping soundlessly.
Hunt came over and put his arms around her. 'If you'd rather be alone, I'll understand,' he said gently.
She shook her head. 'I don't want you to go,' she said huskily.
He held her at arm's length. 'Are you sure?'
She nodded. 'Yes. I am.'
She moved out of his arms and went behind the desk. She pulled out the swivel chair and sat down. It was a little high for her, but she didn't want it adjusted.
It's up to me now, she thought.
Earlier, she had been in contact with White Plains from aboard the Quicksilver. The news had been encouraging.
Now, seated behind Freddie's desk, she replayed the telephone conversations back in her head.
'Child!' Venetia crowed jubilantly, 'I do not know how you did it! No, I do not. Were you ever right about tripling the ad budgets! And sweetening the travel agents' commissions? Girl, that was a stroke of genius. Mm-hmm! Some of our rooms are already overbooked! Did you hear me? O-ver-booked!'
'Then let's pray it stays that way,' Dorothy-Anne replied fervently.
'Oh, but that is not all. Baby, get a load of this. I called in every outstanding favor anybody's ever owed me? Plus, I took the IOU deep dive for years to come? I'll probably live to regret it, but—are you ready?'
Venetia paused dramatically.
'Sunday Parade is doing a glowing feature on our vacation resorts!'
'They what?' Dorothy-Anne didn't quite trust her ears.
'Girlfriend, you heard me. In fact,' Venetia added smugly 'they had to pull a Dennis Rodman exclusive to fit us in!'
'Venetia! How in God's name did you ever pull that off?'
'Better,' Venetia replied darkly, 'that you shouldn't know.'
'You truly are amazing,' Dorothy-Anne marveled. 'Now I owe you big.'
'Wrong. You owe me huge, but don't you go worrying your pretty little head about it right now,' Venetia said generously. 'You'll have plenty of opportunities to repay me. And girl? Just in case you forget, I'll make sure I remind you.'
Next, Dorothy-Anne spoke to Bernie Appledorf. He had been more reticent—not that she expected anything less from a bean counter.
'Your eggs ain't hatched yet,' he grumped sourly, 'so don't go around counting 'em. When you upped the commissions and ad costs at the front end, you took a beating at the back.'
Good old Bernie, she thought. Spoken like a true accountant.
'Bernie, just this once, spare me the lecture. I only called to get our daily earnings figures.'
'Okay,' he said. 'Somehow, miraculously, we actually broke even yesterday.'
'We did?'
'That's what it says.'
'Oh, Bernie!' Dorothy-Anne yelped in excitement. 'If you were here, I'd kiss you!'
'Save yourself the kisses,' he growled. 'And here's some free advice. Consider yesterday a miracle, not a trend.'
What is it with this guy? Dorothy-Anne wondered. And what would it take to make him cheerful? Or is Bernie doomed to curmudgeondom forever?
'Tell me something, Bernie,' she said. 'Is there anything, anything at all on God's earth, that could lift those sourpuss spirits of yours?'
'Strange that you should ask.'
'Aha!' she cried. 'I knew there had to be something. Well, what is it? Let me guess. A private chorus line of naked Rockettes? Breaking the bank in Vegas? Winning the Lotto jackpot? What?'
'My idea of bliss,' Bernie confided yearningly, 'is a nice, steady, undramatic balance sheet, for a change. You know, one that doesn't look like a psychotic's polygraph test? That would lower my blood pressure substantially, which in turn would make me feel absolutely ecstatic.'
'I walked right into that one,' Dorothy-Anne muttered gloomily.
'And there's something else that would make me even happier. Care to know what it is?'
'To tell you the truth, Bernie, no. But I can guess. And right now, I don't need you on my back.'
'Well, as your comptroller and your friend, I'd be remiss if I didn't harp on it. Someone's got to get you to shut down that off-the-wall money pit you're calling from. If you'd heed that bit of advice, I'll have died and gone to heaven.'
'Bernie, Bernie,' said Dorothy-Anne, in order to forestall further discouraging words. 'How often must I tell you? Eden Isle is the future.'
'Wrong,' he rasped. 'Eden Isle's gonna be your past. Your very own Waterloo.'
'And what's so bad about Waterloo?' she cracked smugly. 'So it was the end of Napoleon. Admit it, Bernie: it was one hell of a triumph for Wellington. You see? It all depends from whose viewpoint you look at it.'
But Bernie wasn't biting. 'Nice rationalizing, but no dice. So far, you managed to slide by on the skin of your teeth. But believe you me, unless yo
u cut your losses, you might not survive another catastrophe. On the other hand, without that white elephant you're dead set on building, you just might—and notice I said might—survive tough times ahead.'
Dorothy-Anne knew further argument was useless. 'All right,' she said, 'you've made your point. Your advice is noted, and I'll consider it.'
'Well, I'm not gonna hold my breath,' he mumbled, in parting.
Now, recalling the conversation, Dorothy-Anne had to admit that from a number cruncher's standpoint, Bernie's advice was sound. But accountants weren't visionaries.
She eyed the telephones on the desk and scanned the labels beside the automatically dialed numbers, noting that the first four were hers—the townhouse, her office in White Plains, her car phone, and the farm upstate. Then she saw it. On the left row, the fifth number down: Ackerman.
Without wasting another moment, she picked up the receiver and punched the button.
Dorothy-Anne introduced Kurt to Hunt, waved both men into the resin chairs facing the desk, and got right down to business.
'Kurt, Mr. Winslow is an old friend of the family,' she said, stretching the truth a bit. 'You may speak freely in front of him.'
Kurt nodded, accepting the little fiction. He was wearing a red Coca- Cola T-shirt under a short-sleeved aloha shirt with a pattern of hula dancers, and white shorts printed to look as though they'd been spattered with paint. He had on lime green tennis shoes and rose-tinted glasses.
'Now, about your resignation,' Dorothy-Anne said briskly. 'That was quite a bombshell you dropped on me yesterday.'
Kurt shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He looked embarrassed, and sucked his lower lip in over his lower teeth.
'I didn't mean to offend you,' he said earnestly. 'It's nothing personal.'
Dorothy-Anne nodded, adding a smile to show that there were no hard feelings. 'I realize that.'
She folded her hands on the desk blotter.
'Also, I sympathize with your desire for new challenges. If anyone can relate to that, it's me. Because I'm the same way.'
He nodded.
'So I won't try to talk you out of leaving. I know it would be futile. Free spirits can't be tied down. However, that doesn't mean I want to see you go, Kurt. I don't.'
Second Love Page 45