"But that's the whole point! They are too young! You kept telling me to go out with boys my own age and I did, but they don't care about music —Tony asked me to sing for him!—and most of them don't want to talk about anything serious; all they care about is sex—fumbling around in the back seats of cars, trying to get their hands inside my blouse or up my skirt and they're clumsy and in such a hurry. . . . They're babies! And Tony is a man. We talked and talked; he said lovely things; he told me I'd enchanted him ... oh. Did he say that to you, too?"
"Something like it. Holly, are you asking me to tell you it was all right to sleep with Tony because it's better to learn about sex from a man than a boy?"
Holly chewed the corner of her fingernail. "You don't think it was all right."
"No." Elizabeth shifted a little so the two of them could look at each other. "It's not hard to sleep with a man, Holly, and it doesn't make you grown up. Understanding yourself, learning to balance all the parts of your life, including a love affair . . . those are the things that make you grown up. Right now you don't really understand yourself because you're going through so many changes; you don't know how to handle an affair; and you certainly don't understand Tony. You never did because he made sure you wouldn't. He took terrible advantage of—"
"He didn't! I wanted him to make love to me!"
"But you said it wasn't always what you dreamed it would be."
Holly dropped her eyes. "Sometimes I hated him. But other times I
loved him. Sometimes I loved him and hated him in the same afternoon ... or night." She looked at her mother. "But then, the last week, I felt . . . trapped. I didn't know what to do. I loved him—I love him!—but sometimes I wanted to get away from him because he was always here— he stayed in town—"
"When I was here?" Elizabeth asked.
Holly nodded. "He said he'd been given a few weeks off by his father and he stayed in Taos and drove in—we spent afternoons at the Taos Inn—"
"You told me you were in rehearsals."
"I was with Tony in Taos; I haven't been ... I haven't been singing very much. It's so hard, all of a sudden—can't I tell you about Tony?"
"Yes," Elizabeth said, hating it, but knowing they had to get through it.
"He was always around. And I loved it—I mean, Tony Rourke wanted to be with me all the time! That was a dream and I couldn't believe it, but then all of a sudden one day I felt trapped. We were in Taos, at the Inn, sitting in the courtyard outside our room—his room—and he told me I was going away with him. I did believe him when he said he'd make me famous, but I was afraid to leave everybody, but he wouldn't give me time to think about it, he kept talking and talking and then yesterday, when you went to New York, he took my suitcase down so I could look at it and get used to the idea and then he started packing my clothes and I couldn *t stop him! I wanted to ask you what to do, I've been wanting to ask you all this time, but I didn't know how and anyway, you were gone so much—"
Elizabeth winced, and Holly said quickly, "I didn't mean that."
"Yes, you did," Elizabeth said. "And you're right. I wasn't here. I was running around, not paying attention . . . Holly, it's all my fault; I'm so sorry—"
"No, don't do that, don't blame yourself. You can't say it's your fault as if I'm three or four or something; Vm grown up."
Holly began to cry again. She wasn't sobbing or anything; the tears just came. "I didn't need you," she said through her tears. "I mean, of course I needed you, but I didn't know it until later. And you were excited about the things you were doing, and people saying you were wonderful and that was very important to you—you needed that."
Elizabeth felt her own tears come. My lovely, loving daughter is comforting me. "I owed you some attention too," she said.
"I wanted you to leave me alone. I thought. Anyway, that's what I told you ... I can't exactly complain because you did what I wanted." Impatiently, Holly wiped her eyes. "I wouldn't have talked to you even if
you were here every minute of every day. That's the truth. I knew if I told you about Tony you'd tell me I couldn't see him anymore—and I was happy! At least I was happy until I started feeling trapped. And then he said I'd be on his show next month — April! —and why shouldn't I want that? What was wrong with my sleeping with him and letting him do things for me? I was afraid you'd stop all of it—"
"You're right; I would have. Holly, listen to me. Tony Rourke is forty-eight years old and you're seventeen. The two of you have nothing in common but a few fantasies that he recognized and took advantage of. And you're asking me what's wrong with your sleeping with him? Everything was wrong with it. And I think that's what you really want me to tell you: not that it was right to sleep with Tony, but that it was wrong. You want me to tell you never to get yourself in that kind of mess again. Well, that's what I'm telling you. If you can't find a man whom you care deeply about and wouldn't be ashamed to marry—then sleep alone. It's cleaner and in the long run a lot more satisfying."
After a moment, in a small voice, Holly asked, "Did you follow your own advice?"
"I tried to convince myself that I cared for Tony. It didn't work."
Holly met her eyes. "Did he really lie about putting me on his show?"
"I'm sure he did. A television critic in Los Angeles called to tell me his show had been canceled, but even if that story is wrong, you know he never features unknown people. And if that weren't enough, he'd have to clear you with Bo Boyle and Bo would never allow my daughter on the show."
"I asked Tony about that because I knew you'd quarreled with Bo. He said it's his show; it's called 'Anthony,' you know."
"It's his father's show. He and Bo control it. That was why I left; because Bo and Keegan have final approval on everything. And Tony wouldn't stand up with me, against that."
Holly was silent. "Why didn't you ever tell me?"
"I'm not sure. I think I didn't want to admit to you that my good friend Tony let me down. I should have; then you wouldn't have greeted him so warmly."
"Maybe I would have been even warmer. Thinking I'd show my mother the right way to handle him."
A small chuckle broke from the two of them. They put their arms around each other and sat quietly in the silent house. Two women, Elizabeth thought, finally open and honest with each other. My daughter is growing up. And so am I.
M
.att read a report on Cal Artner's story in Key Largo, where he and Nicole had docked for the night. While she browsed in a sportswear shop, he flipped through a Miami newspaper, his eye caught by a headline: "Columnist Accused of Conflict of Interest."
(AP) ALBUQUERQUE, NM, MARCH 19. Elizabeth Lovell, nationally syndicated columnist, has been accused of using her column, "Private Affairs," to advance her own interests by rousing public opposition to a state park and resort being developed in the mountains near Santa Fe, New Mexico.
The stoiy was a brief review of Artner's charges, picked up by the wire service and reprinted around the country. Matt read and re-read it, disbelieving and infuriated. Elizabeth! The most honest person he had ever known, stubbornly refusing to do anything unscrupulous from her first stories in high school and college, through all their work together, from the time they fired Cal Artner for—
Artner, for Christ's sake. Since when did he work at the Daily News? And who the hell let this trash go to press?
"Matt, good gracious," said Nicole, coming up to him. "Has someone accused you of murder? Piracy? Hijacking a plane to Majorca?"
"Worse." He ripped the page from the paper and stuffed it in his pocket. "I'll be right back; I'm going to call the office."
"Darling, it's eight o'clock; seven in Houston. No one will be there."
He paused. "I'd forgotten." Then he said, "But it's only six in Albuquerque. I'll be back in a few minutes."
In a telephone booth, he struggled to remember the name of the editor of the Daily News, and when it came to him he placed the call. "Just tell me," he said when the editor answered. "
Who authorized that story on Elizabeth Lovell?"
"Oh, Christ, Matt, you didn't know about it? Shit. I thought it was kind of peculiar—in fact, tell the truth, I wanted to call you before we ran it, but Chet said you knew all about—"
"Chet?"
"Well, who else would I listen to except you? He said you knew about it and Mr. Rourke knew about it. He said both of you were hopping mad, worried about opposition to land development all over the southwest if people like Aragon were allowed to sway public opinion and ride roughshod over the will of legislatures—those were his words—I wrote down everything he said. You know, just in case."
"Send me a copy."
"I sure will. Always glad to—"
"Now tell me why you never called to check that story with me."
"Chet said you weren't available. He said you were off sailing somewhere and you'd put Artner on the story and then sent him—Chet—to tell us to run it, since it was the New Mexico legislature you wanted to reach. Of course, you knew the AP would pick up a local story—'course your wife's so famous, we should have guessed . . . but it wouldn't matter if you already knew about it, except I guess you didn't . . . Christ, Matt, I'm sorry as hell, but Chet said you'd fire me, or Mr. Rourke would, if I didn't run it. What was I supposed to do?"
"Call me. How many times have I told you to call me any time you have the slightest doubt about a story?"
"That's what I told Chet! He said you were sailing!"
"Wherever I am, I call in for messages. You know that."
"He said there was a rush on it."
Matt nodded, though there was no one to see him. It wouldn't have made a difference, he thought; on this trip, for the first time, he hadn't
called in every day. Nicole had been like summer wine—heady, warm, lulling, so that he thought of nothing else. They'd gone swimming off the boat in waters as clear as shimmering sunlit air; they'd rented diving gear and photographed vivid fish and coral at inky depths; they'd lain naked on the teak deck of Rourke's sailboat, drinking margaritas, tasting the salt on each other's lips, mingling sex and seawater and sunlight. And whenever they felt like it, they ate from the lavish picnic baskets Nicole bought at every stop. They never cooked or prepared anything, but they always had food and drink: salmon bisque, Szechuan pasta, cold curried scallops, goose liver pate, salade Nigoise, dark sourdough and Russian rye breads with Normandy butter, French and Danish cheeses, white and red wines and Belgian chocolates with centers of mousse or liqueurs. It was the closest Matt ever had been to a fairyland where genies anticipated his wants before he was even aware of them and the days passed in a haze of sunlit sensuality.
Until he bought a newspaper: the first in a week. "I'm going to write a new version of that story," he told the editor. "As soon as you get it, I want it run."
"Uh . . . Matt, would you mind . . . would you talk to Mr. Rourke about that? Chet told me—"
"Print it when you get it," Matt said shortly. "I don't need to be told when to speak to Rourke." He hung up. Of course he was going to speak to Rourke. As soon as he could get a flight to Houston.
Nicole was annoyed when he told her; it was one of the few times she had let him see it. "I'm only cutting two days off the trip," he said the next morning, dressing in slacks and a shirt. He'd made arrangements for them to fly to Miami in a private plane that would be leaving in half an hour. He pulled on his sport coat, then tilted her chin up, forcing her eyes to meet his. "After I talk to Rourke, we'll find a way to finish our vacation. All right?"
She shrugged. "I thought a vacation meant getting away from everybody and everything."
"We've done that, for a week."
"And now you're ending it. Because of one newspaper article. Can't your wife take care of herself? Do you have to be her shining knight, dashing into combat to protect her poor little reputation—?"
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"I'm sorry, oh, damn it, Matt, I'm sorry, that was stupid. I didn't mean it." She put her hands on his shoulders. "Please say I'm forgiven. I don't say stupid things so often, do I, that you can't forget this one? Matt? Are you listening? Am I forgiven?"
"Of course." She'd sounded jealous, which was odd, for her, but she'd also sounded worried. "We'll talk about it later," he said. "Are you ready? We should be on time when we're hitching a ride and it's almost noon."
"Yes," she said, very subdued, and they barely spoke on the way to the small airstrip, or later, on the plane to Houston, or later still, driving in from the airport. Matt gave Nicole's address to the driver of the limousine, but he stayed in the car when they pulled up at her house. "I'm going straight to the office; I'll call you when I'm through."
"I'll be waiting to hear how it went. Shall we have dinner here?"
"Whatever you like."
Settling back as the driver wove through the traffic from River Oaks to the Transco Building, Matt thought about what he would say. It wasn't complicated; he was just looking for information. And he had a few small demands to make.
"Chet has to go," he said to Rourke, pacing in the circular office. For the first time in a year, the shape of the room bothered him; he felt imprisoned within the seamless walls, as if they were closing in, with no corners to keep them in their place, and he found himself pacing in a large circle.
Chet had been in the office when he walked in unannounced; he and Rourke had looked up together, surprised into silence by Matt's abrupt appearance two days before he was expected. In that silence, Matt told Rourke he wanted to talk to him alone. Rourke's face had already smoothed out, all signs of surprise gone. He tilted his head at Chet and immediately Chet gathered up his papers and left the office, nodding at Matt as he passed.
"He has to go," Matt repeated. He slapped the page from the Miami newspaper on Rourke's desk. "He ordered this story; he claimed he was speaking for me. I don't know what the hell made him think he could play publisher, but he's not going to get away with it."
"I'm sure he wasn't trying to take your place, Matt," Rourke said easily. "I'll talk to him; it sounds like there was some confusion in assignments."
"Chet doesn't confuse assignments you give him," Matt said bluntly.
Rourke shook his head. "I don't know anything about this. I agree with you: the story shouldn't have been written and it shouldn't have run. But for whatever reason he did it, Chet always acts from zeal, not evil; we don't fire people for that."
"We fire them for overstepping the bounds of their authority, for acting
..
irresponsibly and giving someone cause to sue us for libel, for lying, God damn it!—"
"Matt, Matt, talk about overstepping bounds! We're dealing with a loyal worker! Someone who's been with Rourke Enterprises for over twenty years! Now I agree that he did something he should not have done, but let's keep it in perspective. Chet was trying to protect the concept of free and open development of private and public land. He knows I'm concerned about it; he knows I have investments in a number of these places—"
"In Nuevo?" Matt asked suddenly.
"We're talking about the entire southwest; Chet knows I'm always interested in new properties; he knows I want land opened up for mining and lumbering, for housing, ranching, recreation ... I don't believe in government owning too much land, and Chet knows that. You know it, too. You've written editorials on opening up more land; you ran a brilliant series of articles on the subject last year and we've talked about a new series for this year. We're not in disagreement on that. Our small disagreement at the moment is over one single decision that Chet made independently. Of course he thought he was helping us, but he went too far. He ignored the fact that Elizabeth is your wife, and I confess I'm surprised that he took it upon himself to allow criticism of her in our paper. Of course I intend to speak to him about it, but I must say I'm surprised at your overreaction, Matt: flying back from Florida, rushing in here demanding Chet's head on a platter because the man made the mistake of working too hard for our intere
sts—"
This man is lying. After telling me for months how much he trusts and relies on me, he's telling me a pack of lies. "Listen to me," Matt said, his voice hard and cold as it never had been with Rourke. "This isn't an overreaction and I'm not overstepping my bounds; I'm defining them. First, I will not have Elizabeth or anyone else smeared in a paper of mine: I don't run that kind of operation. Second, as publisher I decide what is printed in my papers. I can't force you to fire Chet; he works for you, not me. But I expect you to tell him that never again will he talk to anyone but me about my newspapers; he will never again go near my papers or my editors; he'll never again attempt in any way to influence what goes in my papers—"
"I think you'd better stop there, Matt. Whose papers are you talking about?"
"Mine. I bought them; I'm publisher of them. I was given complete control of—"
"You weren't, but the important word there is given. You were given
those papers by me. And since I gave them, I can take them away." Rourke leaned back in his chair. A stranger would have said he was relaxed, but Matt knew those half-closed eyes hid a glint that made powerful men quail. "If you think you can behave as if those are your newspapers, and order me to tell one of my staff how to conduct himself, you don't know the meaning of bounds, much less overstepping them. God damn it, I made you! I freed you from that piddling rag you were turning out once a week behind a cactus somewhere; I widened your boundaries, I made them limitless, I made you known and respected not in an adobe wasteland but in the whole country!"
Matt had stopped pacing. "You didn't make me anything. I've been running those papers; I've made my own reputation."
"You fool. If you have a reputation, it comes from working for Keegan Rourke."
"It comes in spite of working for Keegan Rourke. You gave me my start—God knows, I've never denied that—but do you know how often I've been hampered by you? I should have supported Dan Heller for senator in New Mexico, gotten in on the ground floor with him, but I lost that chance because you insisted on backing Andy Greene—poor, tired Andy, who shouldn't have run again, much less been supported. And our readers know it. So now I have to work at getting back the confidence they had in us before. And I shouldn't have given in on that highway in Colorado; I knew it wasn't necessary and would damn near destroy a wildlife area, but I gave in when you asked me to, and now I have to deal with readers who know what I've always known: that nobody benefited except a handful of men who owned land along—"
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