Private Affairs

by Judith Michael

  She spread her legs wider and lifted her hips, even though that drew him in more deeply and made the pain worse. It didn't matter; this was what she had dreamed of. Opening her eyes, she tried to smile into his dark look. "Tony," she whispered. "I love you."

  JLh(

  .hey've asked me to stay over another day," Elizabeth told Holly on the telephone. "I'd rather not, but as long as I'm here, it probably makes sense. I'd be home late tonight or early tomorrow morning; what do you think? If you want me home, I'll be there this afternoon; I still have my ticket. Maybe that would be best; I haven't had a chance to spend much time with you this week, and anyway I'm awfully tired. I think I'll tell them I can't do it now; maybe another time."

  "No, stay," Holly said. She shuddered as Tony's hand slid from her breast to her stomach and probed between her legs. She'd wanted him to leave last night so she could be alone and think, but the most he'd done was to slip outside and drive his car into the garage, closing the door behind it. Then he was beside her again, holding her, begging her to let him stay. "I didn't reserve a room because I thought I'd be going on to Houston . . . how could I know I would find you and my whole life would change? Dearest Holly, I can't bear the thought of leaving you; please don't send me away."

  So they had gone to bed in her room, where Tony fell asleep in an instant and Holly didn't sleep at all. She hurt and her mind churned, and

  all night long she felt tears running down her face before she even realized she was crying. Once she slipped out of bed and went to her mother's room and crawled between the cool, smooth sheets of her mother's bed, but as she lay there, she realized that what she really wanted was to curl up in her mother's lap, and that confused her so much she carefully remade the bed and went back to her own room where Tony sprawled across her bed and she had to tuck herself in a corner, staring at the rectangles of her deep-set windows as they grew light with the morning.

  When Tony woke, the sun was shining and he looked at Holly as if he didn't recognize her. But in a minute his eyes brightened, a huge smile broke over his face, and he said her name over and over, not just "Holly" but "Holly Lovell, Holly Lovell, Holly Lovell." And then he caressed her and lay on her as he had the night before. But no matter how hard she tried she couldn't get back that wonderful warm feeling of languor and longing that had made her strain toward him; she had to pretend, and she really didn't know how, and when he was inside her it hurt just as much as the first time and she didn't want him to see that, either, because she thought he'd be disgusted with her and leave.

  But she'd wanted him to leave, she reminded herself. The churning in her stomach, and her confusion, made her want to cry again, even while Tony thrust deeper into her, harder and faster, until he groaned and finally lay still. He turned his head and grinned at her, without moving. But a little later, when the telephone rang, his hand was exploring her again.

  "Stay another day," Holly said to her mother on the telephone by her bed. She swallowed hard. "There's no reason for you to hurry."

  "Holly, what's wrong?" Elizabeth asked. "Did I wake you? I thought you'd be getting ready for school. Are you sick?"

  "No, I ... I don't know. Maybe just a cold. I think I'll stay home today."

  "Just a cold? Holly, something's wrong and I'm coming home this morning."

  "No! I don't want you to! There's no reason! You don't have to come running home because of me; I don't want you to! Tomorrow is fine; I'll be fine; don't worry about me!"

  "Well, if you're really sure. ..."

  Holly heard the hurt in her mother's voice. Please come home. No, you mustn't . . . Oh, I wish I could ask you . . . But Tony's hand was between her legs and his mouth was on her breast and for the first time she felt some of the stirrings of the night before—and then she began to cry.

  "I just have this stuffy nose," she said into the telephone. "But I'll be fine. And I'll see you tomorrow."

  "I'll call again later," Elizabeth said, and as soon as she hung up, she called Heather. "Something's wrong with Holly and she won't tell me and she doesn't want me to come home."

  "But she was here for dinner last night and she was wonderful," Heather said. "And later Saul called to make sure she got home all right and she was fine. Are you sure she's not just sleepy or maybe annoyed because she thinks you're checking up on her?"

  "Something's wrong, Heather. But I don't want to come rushing home when she's told me to stay away; I don't want her to think I don't trust her. Would you call her? Or would you mind going over there, just to see how she is?"

  "Of course I will. Shall I call you back?"

  "Yes, at the Stanford Court. Have them page me in the restaurant; I invited someone to breakfast to interview her for a column."

  "Give me half an hour; I'm not dressed."

  When Heather called, forty minutes later, she told Elizabeth there was no answer at her house. "I peered in the windows and couldn't see any sign of life. I'm sure she went to school. Do you want me to go check? I know her schedule."

  "No; she'd think I was spying; she's so sensitive about her privacy . . . Either she's in school or she's in bed. Sleeping, probably; she said she had a cold. I'll call again in an hour. . . ."

  "Listen, you've got a job to do. I'll call again and I'll keep trying. Don't worry, Elizabeth; everything is under control."

  Thaddeus Bent, in his fifth term as a New Mexico state legislator, had visions of the governor's mansion dancing in his head. He considered himself shrewd, intelligent, discreet, a perfect judge of men. He liked power, though not responsibility, so he got reflected power by mingling with powerful men. Terry Ballenger boasted of knowing Rupert Murdoch, William Randolph Hearst, Barry Goldwater, and Keegan Rourke. Since it might be true, Thaddeus Bent was flattered when Ballenger began to pay attention to him.

  Thaddeus was the first person Chet Colfax called when he and Ballenger arrived in Santa Fe. "Actually we're in La Cienega," he said on the telephone. "Sunrise Springs Inn. Away from the hustle of the city."

  This was a joke, as they both knew how quiet Santa Fe was in March. But over the years Chet and Ballenger had let it be known that they sought privacy, especially the kind of privacy found in one of the stone

  and wood cottages scattered about the thirty-five acres of Sunrise Springs, ten miles south of Santa Fe. "Dinner at seven," Chet said. "Been too long since we've seen you; we'll catch up on all the news."

  "Do you want me to bring anyone else?" Thaddeus asked, reluctant, but thinking it was a proper question.

  "Of course not; we want some private time with you."

  "Ah." It was a sigh. Pride and thoughts of the governorship, with the right people behind him, sent a rush of good-fellowship through Thaddeus Bent. And it lasted all through dinner in the main dining room of the lodge, a friendly room where three men who understood each other had a friendly meal.

  "No question, it caught us by surprise," Thaddeus said, rolling the fine bourbon on his tongue. "One lousy newspaper story; who would have guessed? Came through like a bulldozer; flattened half the members; shook up the rest. Everybody had a copy, seemed like, and then what's-her-name, the Aragon broad, came around waving the damn thing like a banner, saying public opinion would knock us off our butts and into the street if we didn't vote to move the town."

  "What public opinion?" Chet asked. "Do-gooders in New York or Chicago have nothing to do with you."

  Thaddeus dipped a cactus fritter into sauce. "You'd be surprised. People sending money, you know, and volunteering to come here! They come into our state, get a lot of publicity, tell us how to run our affairs, give us a bad name! Who the hell do they think they are?"

  "Only out of state?" Chet asked. "No one from New Mexico?"

  "Well," Thaddeus conceded, "some. These kids, you know, call themselves idealists, think they'll help the little guy, whoever the hell the little guy is—anybody with guts can make it in this great country, is what I say, if you just put your mind to it and don't lie around asking for hand
outs—and what the hell, you can't stop progress, right? Problem is, though—"

  "We know the problem," said Ballenger. "You're being pressured. Volunteers. Money coming in. Mail. We understand; we sympathize. However, Chet has assured me he has utmost confidence in your ability to hold everyone in line for three more weeks, until adjournment."

  "Well. . . ." Thaddeus looked modestly at his plate. "I like to think I merit Chefs confidence. And yours, too."

  "Which is why Mr. Ballenger's Political Action Committee contributes to your campaigns," Chet said.

  "Well, now." Thaddeus looked doubtful. "The election is a long way off. What I have to think of now is keeping in touch with my constituents

  and learning how other states solve problems. Countries, too. The Europeans deal with a lot of the issues we face ... we could learn from

  them."

  "Absolutely. You should be able to travel wherever you think you can broaden your knowledge. And that requires money, and dedicated legislators often have trouble making ends meet. Mr. Ballenger believes, of course, that helping legislators do their best is part of our civic responsibility. And since it's cumbersome having to funnel money through a PAC all the time, he feels it would be appropriate for him to contribute five thousand dollars to your education fund, for studying new methods of governing in the years between elections."

  "Five thousand dollars?"

  "Ten," Ballenger said. "I'm afraid Chet confused you with our United Way donation, Thaddeus."

  "Well, I'd think so. These are delicate matters; they require diplomacy, brains, a sense of duty, a love of the people of our great state . . . nothing comes easy, gentlemen."

  "I also have a little place on Maui that doesn't get enough use," Ballenger added. "I'd be glad to have you take it over for a month or two; better if it's lived in." He pulled from his pocket a glossy folder of lavish grounds with private homes almost hidden by flowers and lush foliage. It lay on the table like a tantalizing centerpiece while the men sped up their eating and ordered coffee.

  "How many are undecided?" Chet asked.

  "It's close. I can't call it yet. The ones whose relatives got sweet deals on restaurant and gift shop leases are solid; they don't want competition. The ones who want more state parks are afraid controversy might delay the whole thing, so they'll probably stand firm. My committee believed the reports—they never checked to see if they were genuine or not—and of course a few of them found it worth their while to help push the vote along, so it's a safe bet they're okay. But everybody else—" He turned his hand over, palm up, palm down, a few times. "It's iffy. They've got so many bills to vote on before adjournment, they'll go however the wind blows, and that broad is making like a tornado with copies of that stinking column and letters from all over the country, and checks—! Jesus, you should see them. Five dollars, fifty, five hundred. ..."

  "All right," said Chet, sounding like Rourke when he'd learned enough, and they chatted of other things through the rest of dinner and then sent Thaddeus home.

  In the following afternoons and evenings, he and Ballenger met with Horacio Montoya and Jay Fowles and the others on their list, and Ballen-

  ger made contributions to their education funds for a trip to Spain, one to Tahiti to inspect the workings of local government, and one to send a failing offspring of a legislator to a college where he would be sure to graduate. There were also promises that other legislators would receive special attention on the purchase of choice condominiums in the Nuevo Resort.

  At the end of five days Ballenger returned to Montana, satisfied he'd done his part. Chet stayed on, and three days later, in the midst of his daily massage, received a phone call from Thaddeus Bent. "We're making progress—God, I've talked till I'm blue in the face!—but now there's an emergency bill on the floor and I wouldn't put money on—"

  "Who introduced it?"

  "It's called the Aragon Bill; does that answer your question? Can you believe the nerve of that woman? Asking for a hundred acres—as a gift! To nobodies—and funds to move some buildings. A bunch of shacks, can you believe it?"

  "I believe the world is full of crazy people. You can't predict the vote?"

  "Like I said, I wouldn't put any money on it, either way."

  Chet handed the telephone to the masseuse and put his head back down on the table, his arms dangling over the sides. Iron hands kneaded and pummeled his back and neck, worked down to his waist and farther down, along his spine. He barely noticed; he had a problem. Mr. Rourke was not going to be happy.

  But it had helped after all, he thought when he was back in his stone cottage; he knew he always had his best ideas on the massage table. Showered, freshly dressed, his skin pink, his hair neatly combed, he embraced a tall vodka and ice and punched numbers on his telephone. And when the receptionist at the Houston Record answered, he asked for Cal Artner.

  On March 15, the banner headline of the Albuquerque Daily News blared,

  ATTACKS STATE PARK PROJECT FOR PERSONAL GAIN

  Columnist a Secret Landowner in Disputed State Park by Cal Artner

  Elizabeth Lovell, syndicated author of "Private Affairs," is using her column to attack a new state park and force a bill through the legislature that would rob the people of New Mexico while lining her own pockets, it was alleged today.

  In an exclusive investigation, the Daily News has learned that Lovell, whose "Private Affairs" column appears in 400 newspapers, secretly bought land, and is on close terms with other former landowners, in Nuevo, a mountain town on the Pecos River, where the state of New Mexico is building a dam and flood control reservoir and a state park.

  Construction of the dam began last summer after the townspeople sold their land and were offered further compensation for resettlement elsewhere. Recently, egged on by outside agitators, they began demanding they be given back some of the most valuable land they sold.

  To force the legislature to give them the land, they are attempting to ram the Aragon Bill through the legislature. The stated purpose of the bill is to allow the townspeople to stay in the valley but the real purpose, it is alleged, is to reap huge profits from the tenfold increase in land values that came once the state park was announced, and also from the increased tourism.

  Lovell was recently removed from the popular talk show "Anthony" for "insubordination," according to network sources. Last year she used her column to launch the political career of Isabel Aragon, newly-elected state legislator and sponsor of the Aragon Bill; currently she is using it to disseminate the views of the Nuevo residents, to promote the Aragon Bill, and to attack the dam and the flood control reservoir.

  In Los Angeles, the Daily News spoke to a technician on "Anthony," who reports that Jock Olson, a construction worker on the Nuevo dam, was rehearsed by Lovell, the day before she interviewed him, to attack developers for taking advantage of the people and to claim that lakeshore land is abundant, and should be given to residents for a new town.

  The Daily News has learned, however, that Olson, like Lovell, is a landowner in Nuevo, having been given land and made an "honorary citizen" by the townspeople last summer. This would entitle him, like Lovell, to some of the more valuable land being demanded by the people.

  The investigation into those who would reap huge benefits from the Aragon Bill is continuing.

  Elizabeth called Matt. How could he? How could he? But his secretary said he was out of town. "He'll be calling in, Mrs. Lovell, but I don't know just when."

  "Tell him to call me," Elizabeth said shortly and hung up, trying to control her furious shaking. After everything we had — even if it's not the same anymore — how could he?

  And to use Cal, of all people. How did he find him? How could he — ?

  I don't ever want to talk to him again.

  Then why are you calling him?

  Because I want to hear what he has to say; and to tell him it's over. I'm getting a divorce.

  But there was more to come. Artner's story had been aimed at
the New Mexico legislature, but Polly Perritt knew a good scandal when she heard one, and the day after she heard about the story from her contact in Santa Fe, she had an item in her column.

  And Saul was the one who showed it to Elizabeth, so she would be with a friend when she read it.

  Nasty news for Elizabeth the Lovelly, whose splendid star seems to be sinking. The Private Affairs lady is accused of using her column to skyrocket her savings account. One wonders: If our clever columnist has been using tricks, was it beddie-bye bouncings with her handsome host that got her on "Anthony" . . . and the same with powerful Paul that climaxed a contract for 400 papers? After all, hubby got her started—and don't we know how helpful handsome he-men soon become a habit?

  "Don't say anything," Saul cautioned. "Let me talk while you get your murderous emotions under control." He paced about her sunny living room, now and then glancing at Elizabeth's stony face and the rigid set of her shoulders. Sitting crosslegged on the couch, barefoot, in white jeans and a blue cotton sweater, she looked young and vulnerable, but he saw faint lines in her face that had not been there a year ago, and as he paced and talked he was silently cursing Matt and everything he had brought down on his house.

  "Ignore Polly the parrot; she has a short attention span and tomorrow she'll be screwing somebody else. Don't even talk about Matt for a minute. Let's talk about Artner. First, we take his story seriously; it's damaging and we have to counter it. Second, most of it seems at least partially

  true, except the rehearsing of Olson. I assume you did some preliminary get-acquainted stuff, right? And Artner probably bribed someone who was there. What I most want to know is, who the hell does Artner work for? That story didn't come from his minuscule brain; someone fed him the idea and the facts and then made it worth his while to write it. Are you calm enough to talk? I assume he's the helicopter boy-wonder you and Matt booted for sneaking Indian dancers onto the front page of the Chieftain "