“It will make money,” he fired back, “because with your satellites, we won’t be paying a studio its usual obscene cut from the top, nor will we be paying millions for prints. That’s when you’ll get rich, when the industry catches on to how easy it will be to get from an idea to a theater.”
She noticed that Padraig’s signature lilting brogue had vanished. He was talking the West Coast version of English. And he wasn’t sprinkling his conversation with references to fairies and leprechauns. He was talking dollars and cents like an accountant.
“I think we’ve stumbled into a very promising investment,” she reported to Peter Barnes at the end of her first day with O’Connell. “This guy is anything but the lyric poet he pretends to be. He has a very calculating side.”
“I know,” Peter said, thinking of Jennifer’s accident and the blackmail insinuated against himself. “A darlin’ fellow.”
O’Connell told Jennifer only that he had “run into Catherine out here on the coast.”
Jennifer’s surprise sounded genuine. “What’s she doing out there?”
“Oh, lining up movie business for your satellites, I suppose.”
“Did you get along?”
“If you mean did she scratch my eyes out, she did no such thing. Very polite. Even took an interest in what I’m up to. Just her charming self, she was.”
“Oh, Padraig, I want so much for everything to work out.” Somehow, she hoped, the suspicions against her husband could be dismissed, and his charges against Peter and her sister put to rest. “It was only an accident. All these accusations and insinuations are ridiculous.”
That night, when Catherine and Padraig settled down for their drinks, there was a newfound respect between them. He knew that she was much more than a glamorous front for the company, and she no longer considered him a rogue and a braggart. Their dinner conversation was about the business and the prospects that were looking much brighter than they had only hours earlier.
The next day Catherine traveled with him on his rounds of talent agencies, where doors were flung open now that he was funded. She followed with great interest the conversations about matching talent to story lines, and enjoyed the inside gossip about who had proven to be too difficult on the set of a recent picture, who was dangerously involved with drugs, and whose talents fell short of the demands of the script.
For his part, O’Connell was delighted to have Catherine on his arm. She was, as always, dazzling, instantly recognized, and at ease with the fawning that her wealth provoked. People who might not have considered working with Padraig found ways to get into the meetings so they could spend a few moments with Catherine. People who wouldn’t have crossed the street to meet Jennifer broke appointments to be with Catherine.
“I thought I was the celebrity,” Padraig said after one meeting.
“No, you’re the actor,” Catherine answered. “I’m the real thing.”
The talent and the agents were also impressed with her savvy. There were legions of beautiful women in Hollywood, on the arms of executives in public places and on the peripheries of meetings. But no one expected them to intrude into conversations. As one producer had said of a starlet’s lips, “They’re for pouting, not for talking.” But it was obvious to all, and increasingly so to Padraig, that Catherine had done her homework. She knew their concerns and spoke directly to them. They appreciated that she advanced no opinions into film arts but had focused strictly on the return on investment.
At the end of the day, when she kicked off her heels in the sitting room of her suite, she knew she had done a good day’s work. Padraig was simply in awe.
“If you’re not careful, you might end up owning this town,” he told her. “That would make you responsible for all its sewage problems.”
“We’re going to make money on the films,” she predicted, “and then more money on the satellite services. A year from now you’ll be the toast of Tinseltown.” She accepted the glass of bottled water he brought from the bar, then gave a sigh. “Let’s not do dinner tonight, Padraig. I’ve got an early flight in the morning.”
He recognized his dismissal but stayed in his chair. “Do you still think I had anything to do with your sister’s accident?”
“That’s in the past,” she answered. “Just so long as there are no more accidents in the future. I think you can see that there are many ways I can help you. I have a lot more to offer than Jennifer’s money.”
He whistled softly. “Jay-sus. You’re as hard as a diamond and just as cold.”
“As attractive as a diamond, too. I’m very good currency. Better than paper, and maybe even better than gold. And Padraig, be very straight with me. Don’t ever give me reason to turn against you.”
When she returned to New York, Catherine made a point of telling Jennifer that she had struck up a business relationship with Padraig. But her explanation was not entirely honest. “We need a stake in a business like his, and I suppose we might as well keep it in the family.”
Jennifer showed suspicion, so Catherine elaborated. “Not that I’d trust him for a minute, if I were you. But with Pegasus money, he won’t have to dip into yours.”
When Padraig called, he told Jennifer that he had persuaded Catherine and Peter to lend their full backing. He made it sound as though it was their apology for having suspected him. “It’s all working out fine, darlin’ girl.” And then he promised that within a week or so, he’d be able to handle most of his business out of New York. Jennifer was overjoyed. But she had to swallow hard to take in her sister’s repeated trips to Hollywood, and the gossip speculations that Padraig was wooing the more glamorous sister.
“They’re all liars,” he told her when she flew out to spend a weekend with him. “Catherine and I are doing business deals and nothing more. But here in Gomorrah, everyone kisses everyone. At least before they plunge the knife into the back. And the journalists are like whores making up stories. They’ll have me sleeping with her next, and then with both of you at the same time.”
“I couldn’t stand that,” Jennifer said.
Padraig rubbed his neck. “I’ve heard good things about a ménage à trois.”
“I mean you sleeping with her. If that ever happened, your brakes would fail with her in the passenger seat.”
“Not to fear, darlin’. She’s not my type. Too busty. And I don’t care for her tattoos.”
“Tattoos?” Jennifer screamed.
He covered his mouth. “Did I let the cat out of the bag?”
She began pounding him with a pillow. “You’re just damn lucky I know she doesn’t have any tattoos.”
En route to New York, her flight path crossed Catherine’s, headed for Los Angeles.
“Am I never to be rid of the Pegan sisters,” O’Connell complained in mock grief when Catherine appeared at his office.
“I can’t speak for Jennifer,” Catherine answered, “but I’m going to stick to you like your hairpiece. We’re in business together, and I try to stay close to my money. Even more so now.”
“Now? Has something changed?”
“For the better,” Catherine answered. “Peter wants to raise the stakes. We want to put up more money, and we want to set this company up on its own, as an independent corporation. Peter, you, and I are the directors. We each own a third of the stock. I’m chairman and you’re CEO.”
Padraig smiled suspiciously. “And you’ve come to ask my opinion.”
“No, I’ve come to get your signature. This is the way we want to invest our money. And we thought you wouldn’t mind owning a smaller piece of a bigger operation, particularly with all the perks.”
“What perks?”
Catherine tipped her head and studied him carefully. “I thought you would have figured it out by now, Padraig. I’m the star in this family. I’m the one who belongs in Hollywood. You’re married to the wrong sister.”
They finished the day dining with agents who brought new projects for their consideration and suggested
casts and directors. “This is Private Ryan meets the army air force,” a reptilian promoter whispered as he pushed a paper-bound screenplay around the wineglasses. He turned his head to check the room, implying that it would be dangerous if word got out that such a treasure existed. “George Clooney is dying to do the colonel, and we’re thinking of Russell Crowe for the squadron commander.”
“Is there a part for me?” Padraig asked with feigned seriousness.
“Fantastic,” the promoter said as if God’s hand had just reached down to touch his finger. He consulted with his young associate. “Why not? Maybe an RAF general who pulls their asses out of the fire.” His eyes flicked from Padraig to Catherine. “And we could give the guy a back story. Like he turned back from a mission once, so no one takes him seriously. But in the end he’s aboard one of the bombers and has to take over.”
“From Russell Crowe?” Catherine asked innocently.
“No, no, from one of the other pilots. But can’t you see it? Their planes come together, and Crowe tips his cap in recognition. Sort of redeeming Padraig’s character.”
They bid their hosts good night at the door to the restaurant and watched them walk to a big Mercedes. “How does such a pathetic fool get a car like that?” Catherine asked.
“Out here you rent them by the hour,” Padraig said. “It shows that you’re to be taken seriously. He probably has to have it back by midnight. And then he’ll call Visa and claim that the card he used to pay for dinner was stolen this afternoon.”
The attendant drove up in Padraig’s roadster and ran around to open the door for Catherine. “Do we have to drop this off someplace?” she asked about the car.
“Not until after I drop you off,” he deadpanned. He started the engine and reached for the shift lever. Catherine’s hand settled on his.
“I’m not in a hotel mood,” she said. “I’m leaning more toward skinny-dipping in the Pacific. Do you know anyone who has a beach house?”
He slipped his hand from under hers and then moved his on top. “Would it be my place you’re thinking of?”
“I was thinking of The Quiet Man meets From Here to Eternity.”
“And would there be a part for me?”
“Oh, you’d have the lead.”
He shifted and peeled out of the parking lot, his head thrown back in his theater-poster smile. Once again the great secret agent failed to notice that he was being followed. A Ford Taurus had to run a light to keep up with him.
They kept up a light banter as they drove out to the beach house, Catherine reading lines from the script they had been given and Padraig improvising the responses. “But what will I do if something happens to you?” she read, the line of a young woman whose lover was about to take off on a dangerous mission. “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn,” he answered in his best Clark Gable drawl. They were giggling like children when they left the car by the road and walked down the steps to his house.
But the mood changed once they were inside. Catherine waited out on the deck while Padraig fixed each of them a dash of his favorite Scotch. Then she moved easily against him while they listened to the surf that was barely visible in the darkness. In a second, she was in his arms and their lips were just touching, and then they were rocking in passionate embrace.
“We don’t really have to do this in the surf like From Here to Eternity,” he told her. “I have a very comfortable bed inside.”
“I hate it when sand sticks to me,” she answered.
They shed clothes on the way to the bedroom, somehow managing to keep their faces pressed together in the process. As he was easing her onto the bed, he asked, “Have you given any thought to what I should tell your sister?”
“Tell her you’re a heel. She’ll believe that.”
They made love, sipped their Scotch, and then started over again, this time lying across the bed. They ended locked in each other’s arms, breathing heavily, their feet hanging over the side. There was light in the sky and birds singing when Catherine heard soft snoring deep in his throat.
She was surprised to find him sitting out on a deck chair when she awoke. “Either you’re in fantastic shape or I’m slipping,” she said as she walked up behind him. She tousled his hair. “Wow, you really could use a hairpiece.”
“Fix us some coffee,” he told her, “and then come out and sit with me. I think we have to talk.”
She returned a few minutes later, a steaming mug in each hand. “This will test your courage. I haven’t made coffee since college.”
He tasted. “Dreadful,” he decided. “Worse than your sister’s. Hasn’t either of you ever kept house? I had hoped that at least one of you could do windows.”
“If that’s what you want, then Jennifer would be your best bet. She has high-tech experience.” She settled into the chair next to him, and they spent the next few minutes staring out at the surf. Padraig finally raised the obvious issue.
“Have you given any thought to how I stay married to your sister and in business partnership with you? The reason I ask is that I’m not sure I’m up to flying cross-country from bed to bed with any regularity.”
“It didn’t seem to be a problem last night.”
“No, and it wasn’t a problem over the weekend when your sister—my wife, as you may remember—was out here for a visit. An occasional indiscretion is important to my fans. But now I have long-term agreements with both of you. And while you and I seem comfortable with the arrangement, I’m not sure what Jennifer’s reaction will be.”
“She’ll put out a contract on the two of us.”
“That would be my guess as well. So perhaps you and I should limit our relationship to just business.”
Catherine looked mock-aghast. “You mean I do all the work and she has all the fun?”
He stood and dumped the dregs of his coffee over the side. “Do you have another suggestion?”
“I’ll have to tell her.”
He was too stunned to think of a glib remark.
“Padraig, you and I are going to be a great team. This business venture is going to succeed wildly because both of us are at home in the limelight. We’ve got these people falling at our feet. As for our personal relationship, last night was only the beginning. I don’t want to feed your ego, but you’re better than your press notices. And you seemed to find me interesting as well.”
“Indeed I did,” he allowed. “But from a long-term perspective—”
She cut him off. “I am looking long-term. I set up our company independently so that no one could ever cut it off except you and me. And I don’t plan to cheat on my sister for the rest of my life, either. I see the future very clearly, Padraig, and I’m not going to lose it just because Jennifer saw you first.”
“But she’s my wife—”
“You’ve had others. And you’ve dropped them for a lot less than you’ll be dropping her for.”
He whistled softly. “It’s the devil I’m hearing.”
“Cut the blarney, Padraig. You know your choices. You can have Jennifer or you can have everything. Since you married her in order to get everything, I don’t see why it should be such a difficult choice.”
TEN
WHEN SHE entered Peter’s office, Catherine found Jennifer waiting.
“Did you read it?” Jennifer asked without a word of greeting. She held up the document that had been resting on the conference table in front of her.
Catherine nodded as she took a seat across from her sister.
“Kind of shocking,” Jennifer offered.
“Surprising. But no big deal.”
The door from Peter’s washroom opened and he came out, trying to button down one of his collar tabs.
“Hi, Peter,” Jennifer tried in greeting. Her voice trailed off. This wasn’t going to be business as usual. Catherine looked up but broke eye contact instantly.
He sat at the head of the table and reached down for the document that Jennifer had brought to the meeting. “I had this pr
epared by our investigators because I wanted it to be completely objective. I’ve read it, and it seems to cover everything, at least as far as I remember. It was over twenty years ago.”
“Why?” Catherine asked, and when Peter seemed puzzled, she added, “Why did you have them dig all this stuff up?”
He nodded. “Because someone else seemed to know about it, and I detected an implied threat of blackmail. The only way I could make the information useless was to bring it out into the open.”
“Blackmail?” Jennifer was horrified.
“Not specifically,” Peter answered. “Just the implication that if I didn’t try to be more … cooperative, you two might get to hear the whole lurid story. So, I thought it was best if you heard it from me.”
“Is it true?” Catherine asked.
“It’s factually accurate.”
“That wasn’t my question. There’s an implication here that Dan Holland’s death was very convenient for you—”
“It was. It launched my career.”
Catherine stared at him, waiting for the rest of the answer. Peter didn’t seem anxious to elaborate.
Jennifer finally took up the issue. “Peter,” she asked, “were you in any way involved with your partner’s death?”
He looked at her directly. “That’s the question I’ve been asking myself all my adult life. You’ve read what the investigators have to say. What do you think?”
Jennifer’s eyes lowered. She didn’t want to say what she thought. The report pulled no punches. There was motive and there was opportunity. If she looked at the scenario dispassionately, she saw Peter as a prime suspect in his partner’s death. But she had known Peter for ten years, and the person she knew simply didn’t fit the crime.
Catherine spoke up. “You can’t do that now, Peter. You always turn our questions back on us, but not this time. I think we’re entitled to an answer.”
He dropped his chin and pursed his lips. “Of course you’re entitled to an answer. But there just isn’t one. I didn’t start the fire. But then again, I didn’t put it out.”
Good Sister, The Page 11