She's pretending we didn't talk about Houston, Elizabeth thought. But she said nothing. She didn't want to think about Houston, or Rourke, either. Nothing was settled: Matt might decide he didn't want to work in Rourke's office; something else might come along . . . There was plenty of time.
Cesar joined them for lunch, then went inside for a nap, and Elizabeth and Isabel talked into the afternoon until Peter returned. "Four o'clock on the dot."
Elizabeth looked about. "Where's Maya?"
"Making dinner with her mother. I told her I'd come back tonight. I
figured you'd let me use the car. Tomorrow, too. Or you might want to come again yourself."
After another look at his shining eyes, Elizabeth glanced about the peaceful valley, at the farmers harvesting in the distance, at Holly and Luz coming down the path, at Isabel, beside her, solid and comforting. "If not tomorrow, very soon," she said. Lazily, she stood and stretched. "I haven't felt this relaxed in months. Of course we'll come back. Soon."
For a moment, as clearly as the cry of the bluejays, she heard Zachary talking about the valley, and holding on to his land, and retiring there.
We shouldn't have sold, she thought again. And that reminded her of Ballenger. She'd have to look into that; it was curious. And maybe she and Matt should buy here again. If so many people were selling, they should do it soon. We're a long way from retirement, she reflected as she got into the car. But it would be nice to know it's here, waiting for us, whenever we need it.
The River Oaks section of Houston is an enclave of winding roads shaded by huge pines and lined with bushes and high gates shielding sprawling modern homes and semi-Gothic mansions. Keegan Rourke's twenty-room mansion on Inwood Street was set back in a clipped lawn, but the gardens were behind it. From its rarifind atmosphere of Aubusson tapestries, Baccarat chandeliers, and hand-rubbed European antiques, one long wall of windows looked onto floodlit terraced rose gardens, planted so that the eye moved from the darkest wine-colored roses at the base upward to red, pale red, deep pink, pale pink, ivory, and then pale white. Nothing moved in the perfectly manicured garden: guests stayed indoors where the air was cooled, leaving the roses and pines and velvety grass to look like a waxed sculpture framed by the windows.
Looking out, Elizabeth recalled a small abandoned church, a farmer harvesting his fields, the solitary flight of a bluejay. "Only a few inches on the map," Peter had joked when she told him, after her first visit, how far Houston seemed from home. More like a million miles, she thought, and looked up as she felt Matt's hand on her shoulder.
"Stunning," he said.
She nodded. "I was thinking how different it looks from—"
"I meant my wife is stunning."
"Oh." Slowly she smiled. "I like that."
"So do I. Much more than the garden." He kissed her bare shoulder, breathing in the fragrance of bath oil on her smooth skin, and felt a stirring of desire. He touched his crystal wine glass to hers. "To our future."
"To us," Elizabeth responded, and sipped her wine, admiring Matt's black-tie sophistication, so different from his everyday informality of corduroy pants and open-necked shirts. His unruly hair was combed, his shoes polished, his tie straight. "You are the handsomest man at the party."
"I hope so, since my wife is the most beautiful."
"It's not me; it's my pearls. The most exquisite I've ever seen. Have I thanked you for them today?"
"You've thanked me more than enough." He had bought the perfectly matched strand for her forty-second birthday the week before. "Wear them for the party," he had said as she tried them on. "A memorable October. Two celebrations—"
"Two indulgences," Elizabeth had responded. "Except for my luxuri= ous new car last month, we haven't spent this much at one time since we bought the Chieftain."
"It's only the beginning," he had said. "No one deserves pearls more. Or that wonderful dress."
Her third indulgence, Elizabeth thought: the most expensive dress at Brock's in Santa Fe. But when she had seen her image in the mirror, she had barely hesitated. The halter top was covered in tiny mother-of-pearl and aventurine beading; the long white skirt of narrow pleats rippled as she moved. She had brushed her honey-colored hair back from one side of her face, letting it curve in a long shining wave on the other side, the ends curling under at her shoulder.
"Dad would be so proud," Matt said suddenly. "He should have lived to see us tonight."
Elizabeth smiled. "He'd strut around the room, beaming, telling everyone he was the father of the famous Matt Lovell—"
"Father-in-law of the even more famous Elizabeth Lovell—"
"My dear Elizabeth," Keegan Rourke said, lifting her hand to his lips. "A month away from office drudgery has made you bloom. And your work has been superb. You do receive the fan mail my secretary sends on from here?"
"Yes, thank you. I was going to ask—"
"Wonderful response. Especially the way your readers write to you: as if they know you; as if you're a good friend."
"I was going to ask why you open letters addressed to me."
"Because they are written by people who buy my newspapers. It is useful to me to know who they are, what they are thinking, what makes them buy one paper instead of another. But no business tonight; we should be entirely festive, to celebrate Matt's new position in our little
corporate family, and yours too, of course. Matt, I want to introduce Elizabeth to some of my guests. You've already met most of them and Senator Greene wants to have a word with you." Rourke looked around. "Chet?" Instantly, Chet Colfax materialized at his side. 'Take Matt to Senator Greene, find them a quiet corner, and get them fresh drinks."
Elizabeth held out her hand and Colfax automatically took it. "How are you?" she asked.
"Quite well," he said shortly, then, facing Matt's outstretched hand, he was forced to repeat the procedure. "Good to see you." His mouth smiled; his eyes were cold and flat. "If you'll come with me, we'll find the senator."
Matt nodded. He touched Elizabeth's arm. "See you at dinner." And before she could respond he and Colfax were making their way through the crowd, their black jackets blending with the men's identical ones, contrasting with the blinding colors worn by the women. Comparing their dresses to hers, Elizabeth felt pale, almost invisible, in her pastel gown, but Rourke, watching her, said, "You have style, my dear. You don't need loud colors or enormous jewels to stand above the rest. Most of the women here haven't learned that taste is more crucial than wealth, and harder to come by. However, you must meet all of them. Not as research —they hardly qualify as the unseen people you write about—but because they are essential to our well-being."
"Whose well-being?" Elizabeth asked.
"Matt's. Mine. Rourke Enterprises and its newest subsidiary, Rourke Publishing. And therefore yours. Come."
In a whirl of introductions, Elizabeth met state senators, U.S. congressmen, two U.S. senators from neighboring states, oilmen, highway and bridge contractors, and real estate developers who had gotten in on the ground floor of the North Belt business district and the communities sprouting across northern Harris County. "Fixin' to be annexed by Houston," one of them explained to Elizabeth. "Which is why we're there."
But though Elizabeth heard much about the city, especially talk of repairs to damage caused by a hurricane four weeks earlier, most of the guests talked to her about "Private Affairs."
"It's just amazin' the way you get these people," a striking blond in emerald green said to Elizabeth. "Most especially my favorite, the one about that woman—Charlotte desChampes—who had her ninety-eighth birthday party? And you said how she allowed everybody to kiss her and thank her for starting the family so they can exist? And then you said she looks piercingly around so nobody plays hookey from thanking her? Now I know that is my great-grandmama! Of course you changed her name,
but you have absolutely got her! What I do not understand is, how ever did you meet her?"
"I didn't," Elizabeth's face
glowed. "Charlotte desChampes lives in Taos and she's one of the few people who told me to use her real name. I chose her because she reminded me of other women who behave as if they created their families—"
"By themselves! That is it, that is exactly my great-grandmama! She has absolutely erased Great-Grandpapa, who had the sad misfortune of dying early so we none of us knew him. Aren't you the amazing one, though! To do what you do!"
"Thank you." Elizabeth's eyes were shining. This was far different from the compliments of a newspaper staff; different from fan mail; different from a call from an editor of Good Housekeeping. These were power-ful people, moneyed, not easily impressed since everything was available to them—but they read and remembered her columns!
"And Keegan did choose such good ones to send," the blond woman went on. "I do think he most certainly got your flavor."
Puzzled, Elizabeth asked, "To send?"
"Oh, now I've surely given away a secret. But it was so sweet of him, whyever shouldn't you know? He sent copies of three of your columns to each of us—"
"To everyone he invited," added another woman.
"In case we hadn't read them," said a third. "So we could talk about them and make you feel right at home. And you know I never do read the newspaper, so wasn't it a good thing he did! Now I look for your column every single day—you're not there every day, which I do find unsettling— but I wouldn't even know about you if not for Keegan here. Isn't he a real honey?"
Elizabeth looked at Rourke, standing protectively behind her. "I had no idea. ..."
He nodded a dismissal at the women and took Elizabeth's arm to lead her away. They paused to choose from a tray of lobster hors d'oeuvres offered by a waiter. "I've seen writers embarrassed by people asking what they've written, or saying they hadn't gotten around to reading it yet. I didn't want you to face anything like that."
Elizabeth had never known him to be so thoughtful. If she still couldn't call him a honey, she thought him more considerate than she had ever believed possible. "I'm always thanking you," she said.
"Not necessary. Remember that I profit from your writing, as much as from Matt's expertise. Ah, a new arrival. Tony, you're late."
"Traffic at the airport. Hell of a mess." Anthony Rourke took Eliza-
beth's hand in both of his. "Hello, stranger. My God, you look magnificent. It's been so long since I've seen you. Ten years? Twenty?"
Elizabeth laughed. "A little over two." His voice was as smooth and warm as ever, his eyes warmer still. "How are you, Tony?"
"Much better than I've been in a little over two years. Come with me to a quiet corner."
Elizabeth glanced at Rourke. "For a few minutes," he said. "I'll want you with me when I make my announcement."
"Plenty of time," Tony said impatiently. He brought Elizabeth's arm through his, and they walked to a corner of the room where they looked out at the rose gardens. "I've missed you. I've never stopped thinking about you. Tried to, but couldn't. Even got married and divorced—well, separated, but it's the same thing. But, good Lord, I couldn't have stayed away at all if my memory had been better; you are incredible. Or have you changed? Of course, I never saw you decked out for one of my father's bashes. Do you watch my show?"
"When I can." A different kind of excitement was running through Elizabeth in the spotlight of his admiration. Even among the most prominent of the people who had been praising her, Tony stood out. Everyone knew him. As they had walked across the room she had heard others say his name; three of the congressmen and one senator had been on his show; others obviously longed to be. But more than his fame set him apart; it was that aura of electricity that Elizabeth remembered—as if, because he was there, something new was going to happen, something tantalizing, something only he could provide.
He had a new sleekness, too, since his hair had turned silver in his forty-eighth year, exactly as Keegan's had. Someone must have told him how striking it looked, Elizabeth thought, since he had not dyed it. And he seemed more relaxed and certain of himself. He exuded confidence: a successful, tanned, superbly groomed California celebrity.
Meeting his expectant smile, Elizabeth knew exactly why she had fallen for him at seventeen and followed him to bed. Few women, especially young, impressionable ones, would be able to resist that electricity, and the warm voice and intimate gaze.
That's enough, she thought abruptly. No more of the past. "We don't watch television much," she said, answering his question. "We're usually working in the evenings." She started to tell him that Holly wouldn't miss one episode of "Anthony," but something made her change her mind. "Peter watches you most weeks, and I catch the show now and then. It's very good. You're very good. I like the way you deflate pompous people."
"Nice to hear. I like the way you create word pictures of people and make me want to know them."
"You still read my stories?"
"Every one. I also boast that I know you. My clever, wise, most talented good friend, Elizabeth. Now look at that: your eyes are full of gratitude. Don't you get enough praise? Dearest lovely Elizabeth, you should be stroked, cossetted, and rewarded because you are magnificent and people love you. My esteemed father tells me you get more mail than any other writer on his papers. It's not easy for most people to write a letter, but they do when they read your stories. Because they feel less alone; they know there are others like them, with the same problems and fears and dreams. Why do you look surprised?"
"Because you understand that."
"Dearest Elizabeth, you have always underestimated me."
"Yes," she said, "perhaps I have."
A rustle of movement near the doorway caught her attention and she glanced at a cluster of tuxedoed men shifting about, almost, but not quite, shoving. "Like a bunch of ravenous kids in a cafeteria," she observed. "Has Keegan invited royalty tonight?"
"It wouldn't be the first time," Tony said absently. "We were talking about me, remember?"
"Oh."
He followed her gaze and saw, amid the tuxedoes, the center of attention: his father's frequent companion, as the gossip columnists said, Nicole Renard, riveting in a strapless black satin gown. White satin was wrapped at an angle around her bodice and tied in a huge pouf over one bare shoulder, diamonds hung around her neck and at her ears, her black hair was swept to the side exactly like Elizabeth's. This time she wore makeup—vivid, striking, almost theatrical. She seemed perfectly at ease in this hothouse of money and power.
And beside her stood Matt.
Elizabeth watched him smile at something Nicole said, then turn to talk to a congressman. In another minute, he and the congressman walked away, deep in conversation. Nicole's look followed them; then she turned to the cluster around her.
And Elizabeth turned back to Tony, who was looking at her inquir-ingly. "I'm sorry; I didn't hear you," she said.
"I was asking if you realize you wouldn't even be here tonight if it weren't for me."
She frowned. "Oh, you mean because you sent Keegan my columns. It
seems so long ago. Yes, he wouldn't have known about us otherwise, would he? I should be thanking you for sending them."
"Should? Duty, not pleasure?"
"I didn't mean that."
"I think you did. Aren't you happy about my father's magic wand?"
She gave him a long look. "You ran away from it."
"Yes, dearest Elizabeth, so I did. Frequently he forgets it's a wand and wields it like a whip. But use it while you can, use him if you can, until you think he's using you. Then you must run away, as I did. You'll be all right; I have faith in you."
"Does that advice apply to Matt, too?"
"Matt. You know, it's quite astonishing how I keep forgetting him. Yes, of course it applies to Matt. Especially since he's at the magic center of influence, building my father a power base."
"For what?"
"I'll explain it some time. Or you can ask Matt. But that's where he'll be—at the center—while you're at home writing your colu
mns. Are you?"
"Am I what?"
"At home. Or do you have an office?"
"Sometimes I'm at home; most often I've been using Matt's old office at the Chieftain. I like feeling I'm part of the newspaper. And Saul and I work together on special projects. And the staff brings me flowers"—she smiled, amused and atfectionate—"with little notes about cheering up. As if I—"
"Needed it. Sounds like your staff sees more than you realize. If I know which days you're home, I could come in to keep you company. Bearing flowers and little notes."
"On your way to New York."
"On my way to see you once you move here. It's easy to commute between Houston and Los Angeles; I could do it—"
"I won't be here. I'll be in Santa Fe."
His eyebrows shot up. "But Matt's joining the company in Houston."
"Part-time. He'll have an office here and one at home."
"I don't believe it. My father—the father I've known all my life— would never allow it."
"He's letting us try it. Peter just began his senior year and a special research project at two pueblos; we talked it over and decided we couldn't ask him to move."
"But it won't work, you know. My father demands devotion, attention, instant response, clicked heels. Eyeball to eyeball, Elizabeth."
'Tony, don't exaggerate, I told you: we're doing it this way, at least for eight months, until Peter graduates,"
"Then you'll need company more than ever. I'll do better than flowers and notes; I'll bring Belgian chocolates and poetry. I'll bring anything you want. I'll learn to type. I'll be a friend, servant, companion, candle-stick maker, lover. Are you smiling at me or with me? Elizabeth, I tend to clown, but I am very serious. Dearest Elizabeth, two years isn't enough to make me forget you; twenty wouldn't be enough. I want—"
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