She walked into the park; it was a warm day and she sat on a flat rock outcropping in the sun, watching women pushing baby carriages, old men playing chess on park benches, and a young couple throwing a Frisbee for an ecstatic dog to catch and return to them. I'm going home now, she thought. I don't want to be here; I want to be home. There was no reason to stay: she'd have to leave the Mayfair Regent in any case, since the suite was kept by Markham Features, and she was sure anyone on hold with them wouldn't be welcome in their suite.
She was beginning to feel angry, at Matt on his boat, at Markham and its suite. Good, she thought. As long as I can get angry, I'm alive. She
took a cab to her hotel to pack her small bag and was at LaGuardia within an hour.
Then she waited for a plane to Albuquerque. She bought a paperback and used her Markham Features membership card one last time to gain admittance to the travelers' club where she sank into an armchair with a glass of sherry and her book. A telephone was at her elbow, but there was no one she wanted to call. The only person she might have confided in was Matt—and he had done this to her.
Enough of that, she told herself, and looked purposefully at the page before her. She read for two hours. Later, she could not remember the name of the book or a word in it.
She set her watch back two hours as her plane landed at Albuquerque. Two o'clock; she'd rent a car and be home before four. And once she was beyond the town and driving through the desert, she felt calmer. She rolled down her window to breathe the sage-scented air, and drove more slowly, feeling herself relax, surrounded by desert and brush, the endless sky, misty purple mountains on the horizon, the solitary call of a jay. Home. Everything will be all right. Saul will find out who Artner works for; we'll get him to write a retraction; Paul will tell me I have my papers back again; Polly Perritt will be stalking someone else; I'll find a way to talk to Matt and to forget him. Everything will be fine.
And I can use a rest. I'll call this a vacation. Why not?
She was almost smiling by the time she reached her house, after repeating Everything will be fine in a rhythm that matched her tires as she got closer to Santa Fe. The smile faded when she pulled into her driveway and found a car already there—a rented one, she saw—and then she felt a lurch within her as she saw that it had been rented at the municipal airport.
She flung herself from the car and ran to the house, turning her key in the lock and pushing open the front door in one motion. She was down the hall and standing in the doorway of Holly's room before either Holly or Tony had a chance to move.
Tony, tieless, shoeless, his shirt unbuttoned to his waist, stood behind Holly, his hands around her, holding her breasts, his mouth on the back of her neck. Holly was motionless. Wearing a plaid skirt and white blouse that made her look like a schoolgirl, she stood with her arms hanging at her sides, her head down, her long ash-blond hair falling like a curtain around her face. "Of course it's all right," Tony was murmuring urgently. "Stop worrying, you must come, I'll take care of—"
Then they heard Elizabeth's heels on the tile floor, and sprang apart.
And that was when Elizabeth saw the open suitcase on the bed, with Holly's clothes folded inside it.
Oh, Matt, my God, what have we done to our family?
They were all frozen; it seemed they did not even breathe. Tony's eyes darted around the room. "Listen—" he began.
"Get out." Elizabeth's voice sliced across Tony's soft flesh. "Get out of this house."
"Elizabeth, you don't under—"
"I told you to get out!"
"But it was you I wanted! You! The whole time—!"
Holly made a whimpering sound. "You said you wanted me! You promised to put me on your show."
Elizabeth burned; she wanted to strike out, to pound her fist into Tony's face. But she kept her hands clenched, the nails biting her palms. She looked at her daughter's wide, bewildered eyes and tremulous mouth, and she was consumed by an inferno of rage at the man who stood there, his face working as he tried to find the right expression. "He doesn't have a show," she said contemptuously. "It was taken away from him. He has nothing to promise."
"You're lying! You fucking bitch, nobody knows that—!"
"Tony!" Holly cried, looking at him for the first time.
"Get out!" Elizabeth came into the room and stood beside Holly. "Get out of this house and out of town, and if you ever come near us again I swear to God, Tony, I'll kill you."
He took a step back from her fury, staring at her, trying to talk. His breezy handsomeness was gone, his face was fleshy and slack, his mouth sagged at one corner. "How did you know about—"
"Did you hear me?"
His hands were making little clutching movements; his head wagged slowly as he looked around the floor. "I do have a show," he muttered. "I'm working it out. . . ." He sat on the edge of a chair and picked up one of his shoes.
"Get out of that chair! You despicable— creature" —she spat it out— "you'll never touch anything in this house again! I'm warning you; I'm telling you for the last time . . . get out of my house!"
Her voice and face finally terrified him. He scuttled around her, like a crab. His stockinged feet slipped on the smooth tile floor and he grabbed at furniture as he went. Holding the doorjamb, he swung himself through the doorway, his other hand still making those clutching motions, as if grasping at something in the room. "I do have a show," he said defiantly.
"You'll be sorry; you'll wish you'd been nicer to me—" He looked at Elizabeth wildly and then he was gone.
Elizabeth heard the front door open and slam shut, but she stood without moving until, a moment later, she heard a car engine starting up, wheels skidding on gravel, and then silence.
Holly's shoulders were shaking; she had covered her face with her hands. Elizabeth put her arms around her and held her as tightly as she could. "Holly, dear. Dearest Holly. . . ."
Holly stood rigidly within her mother's tight embrace. "I'm not a baby! You didn't have to come in here and ... I didn't need to be . . . rescued from the big bad—"
"I thought you did." Elizabeth's throat was tight; her stomach was knotted with anger and fear for what might have happened. "I don't think you're a baby—I don't, Holly; I think you're a woman, and a fine, strong one. Sit down with me and we'll talk." Holly shook her head. Elizabeth sighed, staying where she was, holding one arm around her daughter's unyielding shoulders. Where do I start? Vm not going to come out of this covered with glory, the way mothers would like to: wise, calm, pure. Oh, Holly, forgive me.
She took a long breath, and quietly, almost casually, asked, "When did this start?"
"When you were in San Francisco."
"Three weeks ago. That was when you were crying when I called?"
"And you sent Heather to spy on me!"
"Holly, why were you crying?"
"A lot was happening! I was being emotional. . . ."
"You sounded unhappy to me."
"I was happy! It was the most wonderful evening! We talked and talked and he asked me all my dreams and he listened to me sing and said it almost made him cry. . . . And I loved him! I still do! And he loves me!"
"You think so? After what he said—about me?"
Holly closed her eyes. "He probably said that so you wouldn't be mad and make him leave . . . or . . . something. He says things—sometimes—that he doesn't mean. ..."
"He says a lot he doesn't mean. The trick with Tony is to sort out the acting from the truth."
"That's not fair! I know he was telling the truth! He said such wonderful things ... he told me my loveliness was . . . bewitching . . . and he said I made his days bright—"
"And his nights even brighter."
Holly flung herself from her mother's arms. Her face was deeply flushed. "How did you know that?"
"Because he said the same thing to me," Elizabeth said bluntly. "I suppose he also told you you're an exquisite, exciting—"
"—passionate woman," Holly finished,
looking at the door. She put her head up and stared accusingly at her mother. "You went to bed with him! How can you even talk to me? You betrayed Daddy—!"
"Now just a—"
"I thought you probably did, but I wasn't sure, and then you never stayed in Los Angeles more than one night so I decided you couldn't be. Because I knew if it was me I couldn't just be with him one night a week if he made love to me . . . and then when he told me how I'd changed his life I was sure he never made love to you because you're much more beautiful than I am, and much more sophisticated and fascinating, and he'd never look at me if the two of you ... I don't believe you! He never said all those things to you!"
"He probably says them to all his women," Elizabeth said. "And each time he probably believes he means it, or at least most of it."
Holly stood in the middle of the room, her body as rigid as when Elizabeth had first arrived. Suddenly she went limp and began to cry, shaking silently, then breaking into great gulping sobs that wracked her slender body. "Oh, Mommy!" She put her arms around Elizabeth's waist and rested her forehead on Elizabeth's shoulder. "I'm glad you're here; I'm so glad I didn't. ..." The words came jerkily, between her sobs. "I wanted you ... but I didn't ... I got in your bed one night when you were gone ... but that wasn't what I. . - ." She drew a ragged breath. "/ didn 7 know what I wanted!"
Elizabeth put her arms around her. "Hush, sweetheart. My sweet Holly, I know it hurts. ..." Her murderous rage came back— that bastard! —but she pushed it away. "It will be all right, Holly; everything will be all right." She led her to a deep armchair and cradled her grown daughter on her lap. "We'll talk about it in a few minutes. Not now. Give yourself a little time."
"No, I want to. I have to!" Holly wiped her nose with the back of her hand. "I don't know why I'm crying. . . ."
Elizabeth set a box of tissues in Holly's lap. "Use them up."
Holly pulled out a handful and held them to her eyes. A long sigh shuddered through her. "You're not mad at me?"
"I couldn't be mad at you. I love you. And we both fell for the same line." Holly shuddered again. Elizabeth kissed her forehead and held her slender form, remembering holding her as a baby, thinking how fragile
and strong she was, and what a remarkable thing Elizabeth Lovell had done to have such an amazingly perfect daughter. She ran her hand over Holly's head and the silken hair that looked exactly like her own when she was just Holly's age—and sleeping with Tony Rourke. "Let me tell you about Tony," she said, and told Holly the whole story, beginning with that long-ago summer, when she was almost eighteen.
"He was six years older than I, so sure of himself—at least he acted that way—and he made me feel grown up and free. Grandma and Grandpa were so afraid of taking risks—they were always making lists and schedules, worrying about all the things that could go wrong, planning far ahead—and then Tony came along and swooped me up and it was like a roller coaster ride: fast, exciting, dangerous, never planned, never scheduled, different from anything in my whole life. Of course there was more: I was crazy about him and I also felt tied to him because he'd taught me what it meant to be sensual, what kinds of feelings I could have, and what to do with them, and I thought he was the only one I could ever be with, in that way. . . ."
Holly stirred in her lap. What am I saying? Is this the way a mother talks to a daughter?
"Go on," Holly said, when Elizabeth hesitated. "Please. How long were you lovers?"
"A whole summer." All I can do is be honest with her; I don't know what else to do. "And then he went back east and found someone else and married her."
Holly drew a sharp breath. "But you must have quarreled—or you found someone you liked better—?"
"No. Tony found someone. And I thought I'd die."
Cuddled against her mother, damp tissues wadded in her hand, Holly was very still. "But he came back," she said at last. "He kept coming to Santa Fe, to see you."
"I've told you, Holly: Tony likes drama. Somewhere between his third and fourth, or fourth and fifth marriages, he decided I was the love of his life. A dream love, unattainable because I was married. Happily married. But for Tony that set the stage for exaggerated sighs and declarations that were perfectly safe because they couldn't lead to anything serious. Those visits were just part of a role he was playing. Until"—her voice slowed— "he saw that my life had changed. Tony is very good at spotting people who are vulnerable, and he's at his best with them because its the weaknesses of others that makes him feel strong. That doesn't show at first, because he's an actor and very good, even at fooling himself, which actors often do."
Elizabeth looked over Holly's head, at tree branches barely visible in the darkness beyond the window. "He saw that I needed someone to make me feel loved and desired. And young. You think I betrayed your father, Holly, but we were already apart, and he'd made another life, and I felt . . . old. And unwanted. ..."
"So you went to bed with him."
"It wasn't quite that simple, but that's close." Elizabeth thought she might as well hear all of it. "He knew what to say and how to say it; he knew what I needed. He took me to Europe where everything seemed new, even Tony Rourke, even lovemaking. And we were working together in that strange, wonderful place; and he made that seem new, too, so it didn't matter if I didn't always like the things he said or if there were things we didn't share at all, because he's not always nice or lovable. ..." She stopped. "I think you must have seen that. But you were so excited and everything was new—"
"Just the way you said." Holly's voice was muffled. "I didn't know you could feel like that when you're older and know everything."
Elizabeth bit back a laugh. "You can always feel that, Holly. It's nicest when you feel it with somebody who makes you happy."
"He did."
"Really? You were happy with him?"
Holly's tears started again, quiet this time, streaming down her face as they had that first night with Tony. "I wanted to be happy. But things kept getting in the way. He'd say something, or . . . hurt me ... or I'd think how awful it would be, leaving you and Daddy. ..."
Elizabeth remembered the suitcase on the bed. "Where were you going?"
"To Malibu, and then Amain. He said his house in Malibu was cold and empty without a woman in it and the only thing he had to talk to was his refrigerator and I'd bring the house to life. He said we'd swim in his pool and he had a blue bathrobe that matched his, and would make my eyes as blue as the sky ... it was so lovely when he said things like that . . . And even when he didn't seem . . . nice . . . when it wasn't as wonderful as I thought it would be, I still was so full of love and wanting . . . wanting to love and be loved, and share ... do you know what I mean?"
Elizabeth nodded, her cheek brushing against Holly's hair. "I know what it is to be full of love and wanting."
"From Tony?"
"From your father."
"Oh. But it didn't last, between you."
"Because of other things. But it's still most wonderful, most joyful, when you find someone you really love, not someone you have to pretend with."
"I wasn *t pretending!"
Elizabeth let the sound of the words fade before she said, "Were you really going to leave school for him, and Juilliard, and everything you've been working toward?"
"I didn't want to, not at first, but Tony said I didn't need anybody but him. He said even after years of college I'd still have to know the right people to get anywhere and he could find them for me now. He said he'd introduce me to people in television and the movies, and he said when he went into politics and became a senator—"
"Senator? Tony?"
"That's what he said. He was going to move to New Mexico—something else for us to share, he said—and then he'd move to Washington when he got elected, and he'd meet other important people, and . . . make me famous."
Fairy tales, Elizabeth thought, to impress Holly in case she somehow heard about his show being canceled. "And you believed him?" she asked.
&nbs
p; "I wanted to." Holly's voice was almost inaudible and Elizabeth bent her head closer, to hear. "When he touched me I believed everything he said. I loved it when he touched me. It was scary but it was wonderful because he said I was perfect and bewitching and he made me feel beautiful—not just pretty—really beautiful, like you. And he kept saying my name, as if there wasn't anybody in the world like me . . . Nobody else ever made me feel that way. ..."
Her words poured out; she couldn't talk fast enough. At first her mother's confidences about Tony had shocked and embarrassed her, but then they made her feel wonderful; she'd never loved her mother so much, she wanted to talk and talk and tell her everything that she hadn't been able to tell anybody, even Luz—or even think about, to herself! Holly felt so grateful—she had her mother back—maybe now she could get rid of the awful feeling inside her, like a rocket in her stomach, and feel good about herself again.
"I mean, you and Daddy always made me feel special, and Peter too, and Grandma and Grandpa, and Luz—but I wanted to be loved in a different way—I wanted somebody to make me feel special, not like a girl in high school, but like a woman who had these feelings ... I wanted to know the things I felt and wanted were the way a woman ought to feel, and when he . . . when he undressed me"—her voice dropped even lower—"he didn't like me to undress myself, he'd always undress me and
he'd look at me and say I was the most beautiful, desirable woman in the world. . . ."
Elizabeth shrank inside, contempt for Tony mixed with a feeling of loss for Holly: She should have discovered this with someone who would leave her with happy memories. . . .
"And nobody else ever did that," Holly was saying. "Nobody else I ever met—"
"But you didn't give the boys at school a chance," Elizabeth murmured.
"Sleep with them?"
"You don't have to sleep with anyone, Holly."
"You did."
"Yes. But later I was sorry. Not just because Tony broke my heart— and I really thought he did, for a while—but mainly because I never got to know boys slowly, as friends first, and then as lovers. After Tony, I didn't know what I wanted from boys. They all seemed too young, after him, until I met your father—"
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