"Four-hundred—?"
"Give or take a few. From New York to Hawaii, Toronto to Bermuda. This isn't the place to talk about money, but I guarantee you'll do extremely well."
It was the dream of every newspaper writer, but most of them dreamed —if they let themselves—of fifty, seventy, perhaps a hundred papers. Four hundred, Elizabeth repeated to herself. The orchestra began a waltz and she and Markham were dancing and she was still saying the number to herself. They whirled about the floor, revolving in small circles past guests clustered in conversations, past Tony, talking to a willowy raven-haired beauty while his eyes followed Elizabeth and he wondered what had caused her to have that stunned look.
"No answer?" Markham asked. "If you're waiting for more specific details—"
"No. I mean, of course I'll want those, but not now." Elizabeth took a deep breath. "I'm sorry; I'm a little dizzy. You've reminded me of someone else who was offered a great chance, the kind people dream of, and when he grabbed it, his whole life changed."
"And you're afraid yours will change."
"Perhaps . . . Yes, I think that's what I'm afraid of."
"So afraid you can't enjoy your good fortune?"
She looked at him. His smile was warm, his eyes were like pale blue pools, hiding nothing. Elizabeth floated on the music and let herself believe it. He was real; he was serious; he wasn't an illusion. Four hundred papers! Wait until I tell Matt!
She missed a step in the dance, almost stumbling, then caught herself.
Tell Matt? The last time she'd told him about herself—that she had a chance to do her interviews on television—all he'd thought of was how much it would increase her value as a columnist in Rourke's papers.
Anyway, when had they last shared news of their triumphs, or setbacks? Why hadn't she gotten over wanting to do it?
Why should I get over it?
"Lost in thought," Markham observed. "Anything I can share?"
Elizabeth met his eyes again: warm and admiring. "Not yet," she said. "I'm getting used to it."
Four hundred papers. The only way a newspaper writer could break out of home territory and enter millions of households all over the country.
Of course she did that now, on television. And television had that exciting glamour that nothing else matched. But still, newspapers were different. They were tangible; they could be held, savored, clipped, filed. Long after the television set had been turned off, a newspaper story, like a book, could be picked up, re-read, brought to life again.
It all fell into place—her own treasure, her own pot of gold at the end of the rainbow—and Elizabeth laughed, a joyous peal that caused others to turn, smiling, because her delight was infectious. "Thank you, Paul. Of course I can enjoy it. I've been dreaming of it since college."
"I'm glad," he said. "I thought I might have to talk you into it. Now tell me about yourself. I've been curious. Where did you learn to talk to people? Where did you learn to listen? Almost no one listens, these days. Most people are so busy thinking about what they'll say next, they can't hear what's going on around them. You're every man's dream: a beautiful woman who listens."
"And what do women dream of?" Elizabeth asked.
"The same thing in reverse. I've never met a woman who thinks a man listens to her with the attention and sympathy she deserves. You do. And you're a stranger, so your beauty isn't threatening."
"If you really believe all that," said Tony, coming up behind them, "how could you wait so long to offer Elizabeth a contract?"
Markham smiled easily. "I had to be convinced that the public would care about people no one ever heard of. I know how many people buy books about Bette Davis, Lee Iacocca, Joan Collins, Jane Fonda, John Belushi; I know how many people turn on their television sets to watch the glamorous, the notorious, the ridiculously wealthy, the criminal . . . or all the above. You should know, Tony; they're your guests."
"That's what I'm known for," Tony said. "And why should I change? I have Elizabeth to delve into the secret thoughts of those waiters over
there, and my gardener, and the man who presses my pants, and all those other people I can never tell apart because they all look exactly alike to me."
Elizabeth gave him a quick look. "Do you really mean that?"
"I do; I can't help it. I was brought up to divide the world into those who are worth knowing—and all the rest. I'm satisfied if all of them know me. Shall we eat? I see by the caterer's autocratic nod that I am to lead the way to dinner."
Twenty round tables covered with blue linen and set with crystal and cobalt-rimmed china formed two rows along the front of the great room, overlooking the deck and a starry sky vaulting over the dark ocean. At the center table, Tony was on Elizabeth's right; Paul Markham was on her left. Seven other guests had been chosen to sit with them, although everyone at the party seemed equally famous to Elizabeth; she had been recognizing actors and actresses, singers and musicians all evening. It was exactly what she had called it: a coming-out party to introduce Elizabeth Lovell as one of them: famous, recognizable, envied.
And just three years ago, she thought involuntarily, she and Matt had been jubilant over thirteen letters from readers of her first "Private Affairs" column, on Edward Ortega, in the Santa Fe Chieftain, circulation ten thousand.
Tony had given Elizabeth capsule descriptions of everyone at the table: two lead characters in a detective series, the red-headed beauty who played the villain's first wife in a series about a wealthy shipbuilding family, the anchorman of an evening news program, a screenwriter on a steamy soap opera, an actress being considered for a morning talk show. "And Polly Perritt," Tony finished up, knowing Polly was listening, "who terrorizes us with the gossip she puts in her syndicated column. Be gentle with her, be diplomatic, and never let down your guard."
"Dear me, I do sound dreadful," sighed Polly, dissecting her quail. "Don't believe him, Elizabeth; I'm tender-hearted and I cry easily at movies." She crunched a small bone between her teeth. "I'm a faithful follower of 'Private Affairs' and I'd feel privileged if you could give me five minutes tonight; a quick interview for tomorrow's column."
"What a good idea," Tony said smoothly. "May I sit in?"
Polly twinkled at him. "You know me better than that, my sweet. Elizabeth and I will become good friends without any help."
"Turning the tables," said the television detective. "Ever been interviewed, Elizabeth?"
"Not by an expert," she replied. "I'm looking forward to it. Over coffee?" she asked Polly. "We can sit in the library."
"Lovely," Polly hummed, and turned back to her quail, listening, as the others talked of television and feature films, for the small tidbits of information from which she wove her tapestry of the lives and loves and litigation of Hollywood. Elizabeth watched her as she finished the quail, downed several glasses of wine, and dug into the salad of watercress and arugula as soon as it was placed before her. She took no part in the conversation; she seemed interested only in food and wine; but her hand stilled when something caught her attention, her head tilted, her whole body tensed with listening. She doesn't want good news, Elizabeth thought, unless it's titillating. And Tony's voice echoed in her mind: be diplomatic; never let down your guard.
"Tony's a love," Polly said as they left the table after finishing their salad. A waiter followed them to the library, bringing dessert and coffee. "My, my, he is indeed a love. Amaretto cheesecake! My favorite." She speared it with her fork.
Elizabeth sipped her steaming coffee. "What would you like to know about me?"
"Oh, everything, of course." Polly used her fingertip to pick up crumbs from the plate. "How you feel about fame and fortune and having one of the most desirable bachelors between the Mississippi and the Pacific at your beck and call. The usual things." She drank from her cup, eyeing Elizabeth over the rim. "The truth is, I know a good bit about you. But not exactly what I'm looking for. So what I want to know is, how come you're so tolerant?"
"In what?
Politics? Religion? Books for teenagers?"
"Husbands humping in Houston was what I had in mind."
A silence fell. From the other room, Elizabeth heard the orchestra slide smoothly from "Smoke Gets in Your Eyes" to "Send in the Clowns."
"Crude," she said evenly. "I'd like you to explain it."
"That was my surprise gambit," Polly said. "Being crude helps the surprise. As a fellow interviewer, you know all about that: it's wonderful for tripping people up and making them pour their guts out. How else would you and I get real stories? I wondered if you'd fall for it, but of course you're too smart. Anyway, your Matt is playing around, honey, and it looks more serious than a toss in the hay—everybody knows it— and I want to know what you think about it. You and I can talk to each other because we're in the same business, we understand each other, we like to get inside people. Now that's as honest as I can get. I don't beat around bushes, you know."
"I imagine you spend more time in them than around them," Elizabeth said, her voice like a whip. Hearing Matt's name on those crumb-covered
lips made her sick, and having "Private Affairs" compared to the sleazy gossip of this bone-crunching peeping Tom made her so furious, she didn't care what she said.
Polly's eyes narrowed. "My, my, aren't we brave. After lover told you specifically to be gentle and diplomatic."
"Diplomacy works when everyone follows the same rules," Elizabeth said. "I'm waiting to hear what you were implying."
"I don't imply, my sweet. I state facts." Polly drank coffee, searched nearsightedly for crumbs on her plate, let the silence drag out. "The word from Houston is that the hottest couple in town is the star publisher and the lady with the playroom. She's a well-known hostess; he's—as I said— a star and he's got her. She's his." When Elizabeth was silent, she said, "Your turn."
"For what?"
"To talk, honey. This is an interview. You know what that is?"
"Questions and answers. I haven't heard a question yet."
"Well, then, I'll ask one. Is your hubby the luckiest man between the Mississippi and the Pacific because he has a famous wife keeping the home fires burning while he slides between the sheets with a happy homebreaker named Nicole Renard?"
"Nicole?" Elizabeth swallowed the bile in her throat and made her face a mask, bland and faintly amused. "She's an old friend of the family. We ski together in Aspen. She's very beautiful, isn't she, Polly? Or haven't you met her?"
She had succeeded in flustering her. Polly tilted her wine glass and found it empty. "Aspen," she said, casting about.
"And, yes, of course my husband is pleased to have a famous wife; he's encouraged me in my writing from the beginning. We ran a newspaper together for a couple of years, which you know, of course, and when our daughter goes to college next fall we'll combine our careers again and buy a house somewhere. Nicole will no doubt be a frequent dinner guest. With her companions. She has a number of them, but of course you know that, too, don't you, because you're careful to collect facts, you don't imply, and you're never crude except when you're being surprising. I find you surprising all the time. Is there any other information I can give you? If not, I'll rejoin my host and good friend, whose only mistake tonight was seating you at our table."
She swept from the room, her gold gown rustling as it brushed the doorway. It's a lie, all of it. Matt wouldn't . . . not before we've decided anything.
Tony was standing at her chair, waiting for her. His smile faded as she
came closer. "Something wrong?" he asked. "Elizabeth? There isn't anything wrong between you and Polly, is there?"
"She said we're in the same business and we understand each other," Elizabeth said.
"Did she mean it?" Elizabeth did not answer. "Well, of course this isn't the place to discuss it." He put his arm around her and led her to the dance floor. The music was a slow sweet version of "Summertime" and Elizabeth put her cheek against Tony's shoulder, closing her eyes, letting her body move with his as she thought about Matt.
How could you give people a chance to talk about us? If you had to have a woman, did you have to choose one who advertises herself? Didn 't you know that by flaunting her, you'd hurt me?
Or didn't you care?
Tony's cashmere blazer was soft beneath her cheek; the bright lights burned through her closed eyelids; the music wove about her as the soprano crooned the words. Hush, little baby; don V you cry.
And don't complain either, Elizabeth thought, remembering what she had told Isabel, if things don't go the way you want. Do something about it.
And that was when she knew she was going to Houston.
Tony offered her the use of the network jet, and himself as companion. She accepted the plane. "I have to go alone, Tony; I can't share this with you. Or anyone."
"Will you just tell me—she left before I could talk to her—did you make Polly angry?"
"Polly made me angry. I returned the favor. Tony, please don't go on about her."
"You don't understand her power, Elizabeth; I am trying to tell you—"
"Tell me when I get back. Please. You gave me a lovely party last night and you cared enough about me to invite Paul and I'm very grateful, Tony; please don't spoil it by talking about that woman."
"Oh, God; that woman. Is that how she's talking about you?"
"I have no idea." She gave him a quick kiss, the kind he had resigned himself to when he realized everything would take longer with Elizabeth than he had anticipated, and then she left.
She was stopping first in Santa Fe, taking the time on the short flight to shift, as she always did, from the fast pace of Los Angeles to the slow tempo of home. She had the plane to herself: space for ten on two leather couches and four armchairs surrounding an oval rosewood table; a galley kitchen and cabinets stocked with smoked pheasant, caviar, shrimp,
French crackers, pates, liquor and wine; a telephone and television set; and a soft carpet woven with the names of the network's top shows. "Anthony" was in front of one of the couches, and Elizabeth gazed at it absently on the flight to Santa Fe, remembering what Saul and Holly had told her about Matt's quick visit. A modern marriage, she thought wryly: each of us flying into Santa Fe on different corporate planes.
Lydia was waiting, with her car, and they hugged each other. "Luxury," Lydia said, looking at the plane. "And so convenient to fly in here instead of Albuquerque. You look pale."
"Do I?" Elizabeth's arm was around her mother's waist as they walked to the car. "Maybe you just think I should because you could tell by my voice on the telephone I was upset."
"It's so difficult when one's children see through one," Lydia said to a cloud drifting in an azure sky. "One doesn't know how much to say."
"One could simply say what one feels," Elizabeth said. "Do you want me to drive?"
"If you please, dear. I have trouble with the glare. What did he do? Find another woman?"
"Yes."
"You must have expected that."
"I did. But I didn't expect it to be serious."
"It can't be. He's married to you. He loves you. It's just recreation, Elizabeth. What else would it be?"
"That's what I'm going to find out." She drove fast and straight along Airport Road, turning north on St. Francis, thinking of Holly when she passed the high school. "You didn't tell Holly, did you?"
"Of course not. It's for you to tell her about her father."
"I'm only going to tell her I'm going there. That's all I know for sure."
"If you're not sure," Lydia said, "why not pretend there's no woman at all—or just a casual friend—and have a reconciliation and begin again?"
Elizabeth took her eyes from the road long enough to give her mother a wondering look. "Are you serious?"
"My dear, more marriages are saved by pretending than by confronting. You believe in compromise, don't you? I'm just giving it a prettier name."
"I don't want pretty names. I want honesty."
Lydia sighed. "You're a dreame
r, Elizabeth. You always have been."
Elizabeth drove in silence until she pulled up at the door of the Evans Bookshop and Art Gallery. "So were you," she said to her mother. "You were a dreamer. That's how you got this shop."
"But my husband is at his workbench this very minute, making rocking
chairs; he gets more ambitious with each project, and I've stopped reminding him we were supposed to run this business together. Come in for tea; Heather's minding the shop and she wants to see you. Elizabeth, my dear"—she turned in the front seat and put her hands on her daughter's shoulders—"I'm very proud of you. You make me jealous, almost, when I think of what I might have done when I was your age; but then I think it's all right, really; my daughter is going farther and faster than I did and that's the way it should be with each generation. But I'm ahead of you in marriage, my dear; I still have a husband."
"So do I," Elizabeth said. "Are we having a contest, Mother?"
"No, no, Lord no." Lydia opened the car door and stepped out. "I just wanted to pass on the wisdom of my advanced years."
Elizabeth laughed, and was still laughing as they walked into the bookshop.
"What a happy sight," Heather said, coming up to kiss her. "We thought you were desperate. Flying to Houston in a private plane, stopping for the night in Santa Fe. ..."
Elizabeth sat at the table and watched Heather pour tea for the two of them while Lydia helped a customer. "Talk to me about you."
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