They walked to the door. "Do you want me to say anything to Dad?" Peter asked.
"You mean take him a message? No thank you, Peter; it's sweet of you, but we still do talk to each other."
"Not often."
"No, but very politely."
"Shit."
"We're really fine, Peter; we're doing what we want."
"That's not true. You're putting up this brave front—"
"A lot of it isn't a front. Peter, dear, I know you worry about me, but I'm doing some pretty exciting things and having a good time ... a lot of the time. If we're going to talk about brave fronts, what about you and Maya? I've told you about her in all of my letters, but you almost never mention her in yours. Do you want to talk about her?"
"Sometime, maybe. We're going out later, after the wedding dinner. I don't know about us. I was . . . awfully glad to see her."
"You've got a lot of years—" Elizabeth began, when she saw Matt
coming toward them. She gave Peter another quick kiss. "Thank you again; you were just what I needed.".
Matt put his arm around Peter's shoulders and said to both of them, "Holly stole the show, didn't she? I haven't heard her sing for a while; it's astonishing how her voice has grown. Peter, I'm going to be in San Francisco in mid-January. Can we spend a weekend together? I can come to Stanford or you can come to the city. It will be our first chance to talk in a long time."
"Stanford's better. But here I am, Dad; we can talk now and at dinner."
"I'm not staying. I'm sorry, but—"
"You're not staying for dinner? Why not? You can't face everybody for more than half an hour?"
"If you don't know what you're talking about," Matt said evenly, "I suggest you keep your mouth shut."
"Wow!" said Peter. "You've gotten real tough around all those Texas cowboys."
"Peter!" Elizabeth exclaimed.
"Sorry," he muttered. "If you'll excuse me, I'm going to take some New Yorkers under my wing."
As he walked off, Elizabeth looked at Matt. "I'm sorry, too. He doesn't mean—"
"Of course he does. He's being protective. We'll talk when I'm at Stanford, maybe straighten out some feelings." He paused, gazing at her, trying to hide his surprise at her beauty. It was softer than he remembered, and warmer: in an apricot velvet dress that clung to her figure in one curving line from the V-neck to a hem higher in front than in back, she looked like the flower he remembered someone calling her years before.
He met her clear gray eyes and, unexpectedly, remembered how they looked when she was beneath him, bright with desire and love; and at other times, when anyone criticized the Chieftain or tried to injure it, or Matt, the way the laughter in them would turn to scorn. She wouldn't have shrugged her shoulders at Tom Powell's bullshit offer to trade advertising for editorials defending his right to poison the world. She would have made mincemeat of him.
He thought of telling her about Powell, and how he wished he'd been free to tell the son of a bitch what he thought of him instead of remaining silent, but in the same instant he knew he would not. He couldn't tell her any of his doubts any more than he could tell her about the exhilarating sense of power he felt, most of the time. He became aware of her raised
eyebrows and realized how long he had stood there in silence. "I like your stories from Europe," he said.
"Thank you."
"Especially Genghis Gold. Sad, lonely man, but touching in his bravado; you made me like him."
Elizabeth's eyes brightened. "You did get that from it? I'm glad."
"No one could miss it. At least, no one who cares about people." Once more he paused. "Did you enjoy your trip?"
"Very much."
"Were you doing interviews for television, too?"
"Yes."
"Just in Paris and Rome?"
"Yes. Matt, I want to ask you something. Last week Saul showed me the stories and editorials your papers have been running on Nuevo."
"And?"
"Are they being written on your orders?"
"I work with the editors. . . ." He shrugged. "Yes."
"Why?"
"Because that project is good for the whole state. I know how you and Saul feel about it, and Isabel whipped it to death to get elected, but the fact is, you're all wrong. I've read dozens of environmental and economic reports on Nuevo and other proposed developments—"
"Nuevo isn't 'proposed'; it's been passed. The bill was rammed through and construction began last summer. The valley is torn up right behind the town; they've dynamited a diversion channel for the river; they're cutting new roads—"
"Well, what did you expect them to do? The bill passed, the money was allocated, the state will benefit ... it would be a crime if construction didn't begin."
"It's a crime that construction did! No one considered the people who will lose their homes and stores and farms—"
"They're getting compensation; you know that."
"I know they're getting a lake they don't want, and a state park they don't want, and a private resort they don't want, and compensation that won't pay adequately for what they're losing. Matt, these are people you know! Doesn't any of this bother you?"
"I'm sorry when anyone has to be uprooted—I'm even sorrier that you and I are on opposite sides on this—but a handful of families can't dictate to an entire state. They'll go somewhere else. If they're smart, they'll use their energy to make new homes instead of clinging to land that should be
for all the people instead of a selfish few. That park will be there long after they're dead and forgotten."
"And you said you cared about people!"
"I care about the greatest number."
"Because they vote for your candidates and that's where the power is. You don't give a damn what happens to small groups, because they don't have any influence. You sound just like Keegan Rourke."
"I don't, but it doesn't matter; nothing will convince you he isn't the devil. You don't understand a word I've been saying. I do care about large numbers, but that doesn't mean I abandon small groups. You know damn well everyone in Nuevo has been given a list of places to live that are similar to Nuevo, and they've been offered extra financial help in resettlement."
Elizabeth stared at him. "What did you say?" He repeated it, and she shook her head. "They haven't been given any such thing. Or told any such thing."
"That's a lie."
Elizabeth drew a sharp breath. "I don't lie. If anyone should know that, my former partner should."
"I'm sorry; I shouldn't have said that. But you've been misinformed, Elizabeth. I have a report on that offer; it was one of the reasons I ordered those stories and editorials."
She frowned. "Would you send me a copy of the report?"
"Of course." He looked at his watch. "I'm due back tonight; I have to get started."
"I'm not ready to be dismissed," Elizabeth said coldly. "Holly says you're giving her a graduation party."
"I am. The last week in May."
"I thought we'd have one here for her friends and family, in June, when Peter is home."
"There's no reason you can't."
"I think you and I should give it together. Other parents are giving parties—"
Matt shook his head. "It won't bother Holly if she's different; there's never been a time when she was like everybody else. How many others were accepted by a school like Juilliard? How many others have her talent? And her beauty?" He smiled. "She's got enough going for her for three or four parties."
Elizabeth did not smile. "Shall we ask her what she would like?"
"No." Matt threw a quick look around the room, at the clusters of people who were talking animatedly but also casting surreptitious looks at
Matt and Elizabeth Lovell, so deep in discussion near the front door. Once these people had been his whole world. It seemed a lifetime ago. "Two parties will be fine. If Holly wants to talk to me about it, ask her to call. She's coming to Houston on her spring break; we decided that ju
st before the wedding." He leaned forward and touched Elizabeth's cheek with his lips. "I'm going to say a few goodbyes and slip out. I'll send you that report tomorrow."
Elizabeth watched his tall figure move among the guests. He kissed Heather and shook Saul's hand, exchanged a word with Spencer and Lydia, talked briefly to Peter, then walked to the back door with Holly, his arm around her shoulders.
"Champagne," Isabel said, and handed her a glass. "And perhaps you'll join the rest of us. We miss you."
Elizabeth put her hand on Isabel's. "How dear you are, to say just the right words to me."
They walked toward the other end of the room. "Elizabeth, do you know that he still loves you?"
"No. I don't know anything of the—"
"Well, neither does he. But someday he will. You'll have to give it considerable thought. So you'll know what to do when the time comes."
Elizabeth shook her head. 'Thank you, Isabel, but I'm better off getting used to the idea that he doesn't."
"You used to think I knew a great deal about men."
"I still do. But even if I thought . . . He's changing, Isabel; I don't think I like him as much as I used to."
"But you love him."
"That's separate. I can't change that. But I can't cling to dreams, either. I have to face what's real." They reached the guests and Elizabeth moved toward the center of the group, raising her voice. "Saul? Heather?" When the room fell silent, she said, "I haven't made my wedding toast to you. You're so dear to me, to all of us, such a special part of our lives. ..." She felt tears prick her eyes and blinked them back. "I wish you years of joy. I'm so glad you found each other; I'm so glad you took each other's hands. ..." The tears filled her eyes. She saw the wavery forms of Peter and Holly come quickly to stand on either side of her and she smiled at them as she stretched out her hand and Saul and Heather held it with theirs. "A lifetime of happiness. We all love you, and the way you've made us part of your laughter and your fun, even your disagreements—which is probably why we all feel we had a share in this wedding." Saul grinned and low laughter rippled through the group around them. "We love your curiosity and persistence and your honesty,
with us and each other, and especially your strong friendship . . . That's what has meant so much to me"—she stopped again, to steady her voice —"and I wish you a lifetime of love and fulfillment and delight in each other ... the best of what marriage can be."
"Thank you," Heather said softly. Saul kissed Elizabeth and all the guests lifted their glasses to drink. And in the flickering candlelight, the bubbles of champagne were like shooting stars.
♦•
R
oily Perritt led off her post-New Year's gossip column with an item that Elizabeth found on Saul's desk when she arrived for their weekly meeting.
What tantalizing television twosome is tenderly tucked in after traipsing through Europe together? Let's have a round of applause for rosy romance and sexy serendipity and the skyrocketing success and fantastic fame of the fabulously lovely Liz . . . but isn't the lady's legal link to a notable newspaper nabob a bothersome barrier to permanent partnership?
Polly Perritt. Be gentle with her and never let down your guard. I should have taken Tony's advice, she thought. Her column appears in more papers than mine.
"Bitch," muttered Saul, reading over her shoulder. "Does she hire out-of-work actors as her private CIA?"
"I wouldn't be surprised," Elizabeth said. "Do you think Holly and Peter will see this?"
"Doubtful. I clipped it from the Los Angeles Trumpet, which I'm sure
they don't read, and she isn't carried in Santa Fe or anywhere around Stanford. I don't think they'll see it."
"Unless someone shows it to them."
"It's only gossip, Elizabeth. Just tell them it's wrong."
She nodded, waiting for Saul to ask if it was indeed wrong. But of course he wouldn't, first because he wouldn't pry, and second because he assumed it was true. Everyone will assume it's true, she thought; and why shouldn't they? And why was she so naive that she never realized the sex lives of public people like Tony Rourke always made newspapers from coast to coast?
Not only Tony Rourke. Now that Elizabeth Lovell appears on television, she's news, too.
Carefully, she folded the item into a tiny square and slipped it into her briefcase. "Shall we get to work? I'm sure you have February all scheduled, but I'd like to see what you've done."
"I have a tentative schedule; I don't make final decisions without you." They sat on the wobbly leather couch that had been there since Matt's first day in the office, and Saul spread out his penciled schedule for the next month's stories and special sections.
Elizabeth read through it rapidly. "I like it all, but I think you'd appeal to more people if you added cross-country skiing. What if you combined the cross-country race in Chama with the veteran's downhill race in Taos? Put them together in a full-page spread, with photos from last year. And then why don't you send it to Paul Markham? If he likes it, the story could be all over the country and you'd be a hero for getting publicity for the Chieftain, not to mention the state of New Mexico."
"Clever on all counts. Any other suggestions?"
"No. I told you: I like it all." She stood up. "Can I work in your old office for a while? I like to get away from mine at home now and then."
"My old office? That closet? Work in here; more room to spread out."
Elizabeth shook her head. "You're running the paper, Saul; you deserve the elegant office."
He gazed at the tilted, torn couch, the shabby chairs and scratched desk, the worn patches in the linoleum floor. "Slightly less than elegant. Heather thinks I should have a carpet."
"I do, too. And new furniture. In fact, why don't you get the whole office redecorated? There's no reason to keep it this way."
"I'd rather wait. Its rightful owner may come back and disapprove of my choice of colors."
"Saul. Please have it redecorated. In whatever colors you want." She
gathered up her coat and briefcase. "I'll be in your cubicle if you need me.
"Hold on, I almost forgot; are you free for dinner tonight? Heather invited some people; she says you'd like them. Holly, too."
"I'd love to come. Thank you, Saul. I'll have to let you know about Holly."
"I wish we had a dashing prince to offer her as a first course, or for dessert."
"She could use one. Or a concert hall or opera house. Maybe just college. She's terribly restless lately. I'll call Heather later, to let her know."
In the small cubicle Saul had used when he first arrived, Elizabeth spread out her notes for a magazine article on a group of young people she had met in Rome, who had quit high school to go around the world.
"Mrs. Lovell," the receptionist said from the doorway, "do you want to talk to the people who call about your column?"
Elizabeth looked up. "How many are there?"
"Eight so far today, and I thought as long as you're here. ..."
"I don't think so; I can't take the time. Just keep a list, as usual, and I'll write to them later."
"You write to all of them? Forty or fifty a week?"
"Closer to three hundred, from all the newspapers and television. But I have two people helping me." She turned back to her notes. At first Heather had helped, until the job got too big; then Elizabeth had hired a full-time secretary and a student from Santa Fe State College, who worked at two small desks she had bought and moved into the study. When she worked at home she used a desk and computer she had set up in Peter's room; when Peter was home from college she moved into the living room.
"I'll give you an office here," Saul had said. "With new furniture and a door that locks." But Elizabeth had put off that decision. She liked getting out of the house and working near the camaraderie and bustle of the newsroom, but she still got a shock when she looked up and saw Saul, not Matt, in the corner office, and she could not bring herself to make a permanent change.
"
Mrs. Lovell," the receptionist said on the intercom, "an editor at Good Housekeeping is on the phone."
Elizabeth took the call and answered questions about her story. As she hung up, there was a knock on the doorframe and she looked around to see Maya's tentative smile. "Come in," she said, and listened to Maya's jumbled talk about Peter and political campaigns and Nuevo. "Maya, this
isn't a good place to talk," she broke in at last. "I can't speak for Peter any more than I can tell you what to do, but maybe it will help you sort things out if I just listen and ask questions. I'll come to Nuevo on Saturday."
Maya bent and kissed her. "I wish I had a mother like you."
And Holly, short-tempered and restless these days, probably wishes she had someone else's mother. As Maya left, Elizabeth turned to the computer and worked for a few minutes before the telephone rang. "Damn," she muttered, but answered it. "Elizabeth," her secretary said, calling from her house. "The New York Press Women are on the other line; they want you to speak at their annual convention in March."
"Don't I have Tulsa in March? The Junior League?"
"Yes, but New York is three weeks later. And Tulsa wants you to tell them how you juggle writing and television with being a wife and mother."
Plus a lover and a gossip columnist, she thought. And the girl my son left behind, and a difficult high school daughter, not to mention Isabel and the others who want help in figuring out what to do . . . and a husband I can't stop thinking about, no matter how much I squeeze into each day.
"They're very keen to have you in New York," her secretary went on. "They said you're the first speaker they've ever invited who doesn't write on government or foreign policy. And in their last survey, 'Private Affairs' got the highest recognition factor of any national column except for Ann Landers. I must say I've never heard a New York media person sound so enthusiastic."
It ran through Elizabeth like a fine wine: the excitement of being recognized. The wonderful feeling of being sought out.
"All right; say yes to the press women and tell them I'm grateful for their enthusiasm. And while I'm there I'll do some interviews for my column and 'Anthony'—would you pull out the files on New York and New Jersey? And call our New York television station and give them the dates—I'll stay two days, no more—so they'll have a taping crew ready."
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