So she had worn the dress.
Since Kyle’s wife and children were at the McFarlands’ house in Maine for the summer (Kyle flew up on weekends) and Cassy’s husband would not be her husband for very much longer, they had decided to go to the party together. Kyle had a car waiting outside and they had driven down Riverside Drive to 79th Street, turning off for the parking lot overlooking the boat basin. They had then made their way down the footpaths and terraces to the basin, smiling and nodding to all of the people who had been—and were—staring and smiling at them in their finery.
Late June was a somewhat magical time for Riverside Park. And in the evening it was at its most beautiful, because the light was at its most beautiful. The sun was streaming down from the southwest, warming still those baby children snoozing in their strollers, the elderly gossiping along terrace benches and the young couples twisting around each other on blankets in the grass (ostensibly still seeking a tan at this hour). On the waterside promenade the light glinted off the bikes riding past, shone on the perspiration of joggers huffing by and flashed sexy over sunglasses everywhere. It was the light of summer seashore, as if this were a resort town and the summer people had just arrived: sea gulls cried overhead while ice cream vendors cried below; uniformed policemen smiled at kids who smiled at them; and people moved along, sunburned, a little loopy from the excesses of the day.
And then there was the boat basin. Half of it was residential, with barges and houseboats and shacks on floats, and the other half was regular marina, with cabin cruisers and sailboats—fiberglass and teak—and Boston Whalers and speedboats and rowboats. Every generation was represented in the maze of interlocking docking berths, with old faded cotton clothes denoting the bottom end of the class spectrum in the residential half, while old faded cotton clothes denoted the top end of the class spectrum in the other. There were loud, social people whose boats demanded attention—”Look at me, look at me” and there were quiet, languid-eyed romantics, supposedly reading, but really watching others until it was time to slip down into the holds of their sailboats to make love with the incoming tide. There were people there too who everybody wished would go away—as was always the case in New York City—but who never did go away because there was no place to go to where anyone would like them anyway and so they stayed on in New York City.
Though Cassy knew the basin had probably seen everything, she bet it had been quite some time since it had seen the likes of the huge white ship that was moored out in the river tonight. It was a beautiful old ship, something from another era, the thirties perhaps, and there were two white launches cruising back and forth from it, skippered by men in white uniforms.
“Say yes, pretty lady,” the photographer said to Cassy.
She looked at him. “Not on your life,” she said cheerfully.
He took their picture.
“Name?” one of the guards asked them.
“Cochran and McFarland,” Kyle said, peering over the guard’s arm to see the guest list. “With a C.”
Mr. Graham appeared from behind Cassy, with a very attractive woman on his arm. She was in her late sixties or so, with a stunning head of white hair, and was dressed sedately in black and pearls. He, on the other hand, was looking rather festive in a pink blazer, red pants, white shirt and pink and blue bow tie.
Introductions were made; the woman was a Miss Alice Moffat who, according to Mr. Graham, would be working with him for Alexandra, starting on Monday. While Mr. Graham and Miss Moffat had their picture taken, Kyle gave Mr. Graham’s name to the guard as part of their party.
“Cochran, McFarland and Graham plus guest, Moffat, one, one and two,” the guard said into his walkie-talkie. There was the sharp sound of static and then a voice shot back, “Cochran! McFarland! Graham plus guest, Moffat, A-okay, one-one-two all clear!”
“Right down there, ladies,” another guard said, pointing down the gangplank. “Go straight out and they’ll pick you up.”
“Are you working with Mr. Graham for the first time?” Cassy asked Alice as they walked down a ramp in front of the men, thinking that this was a pretty good question considering she still didn’t know what it was that Mr. Graham did for Alexandra.
“No,” Alice said, smiling, glancing back at Mr. Graham before looking at Cassy, “we’ve worked together before.”
“Oh, that’s nice,” Cassy said.
“I was his secretary for thirty-four years,” Alice explained.
At the end of this dock outreach they met up with guests who had come in through another gate: Chi Chi and her husband, Richie; Hex and his wife, Debbie; Kelly Harris and her boyfriend, Steve; and with great dramatic flourish, their arts and entertainment editor, Brooks Bayerson Ames and her (fourth) husband, Dickie. The launch arrived and the attendants helped them step into it; they took their seats around the sides, the rope was cast and the launch moved away from the dock.
“Hey, Cass,” Hex said, leaning to see her at the front end of the launch. “When Debbie saw you, she thought you were an actress.”
“Hex,” his wife complained, elbowing him.
“She did,” Hex said. “She said, ‘Who’s that? That’s somebody, isn’t it?’ “
“I’m going to kill him,” his wife told everybody.
Hex was laughing. “She’s never going to let me edit anything with you anymore. She thinks you’re beautiful.”
“That’s it, Hex,” his wife said, looking at the sky.
“But I told her,” Hex said, “’Naw, she isn’t beautiful, that’s just Cassy.’ “
Everybody laughed.
“Thank you, Debbie,” Cassy said, smiling at her. And then she settled back in her seat, looking over her shoulder at the water ahead of them.
The water was very calm this evening, the breezes light. The ship ahead was beautiful, seductive, the water lapping gently around her largesse. White lights were strung across her; they could hear the strains of orchestra music.
Cassy swallowed, eyes on the bridge. She knew that the tall figure standing there with the binoculars was Jackson; she knew his body by sight now. She had no idea what was going on between them these days, nor did she know where it was leading. She was supposed to be, if what Langley told her was true, made president of DBS by the fall, and she knew that the last thing the president of DBS should be doing was making eyes at the chairman of Darenbrook Communications. But it had been so pleasant—so very pleasant—these last weeks, when it seemed that, whenever she had a spare moment, there Jackson would be in her line of sight. When she was in her office, between phone calls, she’d look out and he’d be sitting out in the square, on a bench, dictating letters to Claire. Or she’d stop in the cafeteria for something to eat and the door to his office would open and out he would come. He always smiled, always waved, always stopped to talk if she indicated she had a moment.
There was a definite energy in the air between them and they were both aware of it, careful with it and clearly made happy by it. It was a delicious sensation, no doubt because it was still safe. Still innocent. It was not terribly unlike Cassy’s first flirtation in junior high school, when she had first become aware of a very appealing boy being endearingly “in like” with her.
These will be the good old days, she thought. She’d look back on these last few weeks and think that times had never been better, had never been more fun. All there seemed to be was good news and more good news. Jessica’s ratings were up. Alexandra’s ratings were holding steady and the DBS News tour promised tremendous publicity. Ad revenues for the next quarter were high. Alexandra got an exclusive with Speaker of the House Jim Wright, when questions arose about his outside income. They had signed eleven more affiliates, bringing their total to eighty-four. (“More twinkling cities tonight,” Kyle would tell graphics over the phone. “Tonight, on the opening, we need to see Rochester, Winston-Salem, Memphis, Orlando, Corpus Christi…”)
Since the first day of the newscast, Alexandra had been caught up in the day-to-day ne
wsgathering process and Cassy had seen less and less of her as her own responsibilities were taking her farther from the newsroom and Alexandra’s were taking her farther from managerial meetings. But while Cassy did miss working as closely with Alexandra as she had been on a daily basis, she was delighted to see how well Kyle was working out in her stead. Because this—what her and Alexandra’s working relationship was shaking down to—was pretty much what it would have to be if Cassy were to become president of DBS. And it seemed to be working.
It was also wonderful to see how Alexandra’s commitment to Gordon was strengthening. Prior to this, Alexandra had scarcely acknowledged at West End that she even had a personal life, so it was a nice surprise when she announced that she wanted to tour for DBS News in July and August, anchoring the news from different affiliate newsrooms, not only to build ratings they could take into the fall with them, but because she wanted to tour while Gordon was in England. She didn’t want Gordon to be away for two months, she said, and then have him come home when she was leaving for two months on the road. On top of that, Alexandra wanted to announce her engagement to Gordon before he left, and when Cassy asked her what she thought Jackson’s reaction would be, Cassy was surprised and delighted (no, make that unnervingly elated) when Alexandra said she had already discussed it with Jackson and he thought it was great.
“Hey, Cass,” Kyle whispered over her shoulder, “look up on the deck there. Isn’t that our pal Greg again? Lord Hargrave?”
“Oh—yes,” she said, “it is. You’re right, that’s him.” But her eyes had moved toward the front of the ship again, to the bridge, and Cassy smiled slightly, wondering if it could be herself that Jackson was watching through the binoculars.
“Creeping catfish, is she the most ever-lovin’ beautiful woman this side of the Mason-Dixon line or what?” Jackson said, looking out across the water through the binoculars.
Langley, who was on the ship-to-shore telephone, was not listening. He was shouting, “The Hudson River. Just tell him the Hudson River. Go north, Jessica, on the Hudson River and you can’t miss us.” He paused, grimacing, covering his free ear. “Everybody knows where the Hudson River is.” Pause. “Oh, christ!” he said, holding the phone back as though he were about to throw it.
“What’s the matter?” Jackson said, still following the launch with his binoculars. He was in a white dinner jacket, looking very dapper indeed, with a red carnation in his lapel.
“She’s on Staten Island with some jerk who doesn’t speak English.” Langley raised the telephone to try again. “Let me talk to Ms. Wright,” he shouted. “Will you just shut up and hand the phone to the senora, please?”
“Ask her if we should send the Coast Guard,” Jackson said, chuckling, still watching through his binoculars.
“All right, all right,” Langley was saying. “But be careful. Tell him we’ll pay him very well on this end. Right. North on the Hudson River. We’ll wait for you. Okay, bye. Phew,” he said, handing the phone to the steward who was standing by. Langley walked over to stand next to Jackson. He was in a white dinner jacket too, though his black tie was not tied very well.
“What’s up?” Jackson said, binoculars still to his eyes.
“Don’t even ask,” he groaned, leaning on the railing. “Steward,” he said over his shoulder, “can you call down for a gin and tonic, please?” He looked back at the water. “She did a publicity appearance at South Street Seaport—”
“She is unbelievable,” Jackson murmured under his breath, refocusing the binoculars. And then a second later, “So what about Jessica’s publicity appearance?”
“So she thought it would be fun to hire a boat to bring them around Manhattan to the party—they did, but Jessica says the driver’s a Brazilian drug runner or something and Denny got left at the Seaport and I don’t know what she was talking about!” he finished, throwing his arms in the air.
Jackson lowered his binoculars, hitting Langley on the arm. “Come on, let’s meet this launch.”
Within a half hour everyone from DBS had arrived: Kate Benedict and her boyfriend, Mark; Adele; Ethel and her husband; Randy and his wife; Claire and her boyfriend; Betty Cannondale and handsome friend; Dan Shelstein and his wife; Rookie Haskell and his girlfriend; Shelley Berns and her husband; Bozzy Gould and his girlfriend; Alicia Washington and her boyfriend; Jimmy Hallerton and his wife; Dr. Kessler and his wife; the Nerd Brigade and all kinds of attachments; Dick Gross and his wife; Helen Kai Lu and her husband; Paul Levitz and his wife; John Knox Norwood and his girlfriend; Gary Plains and his wife; Dash Tomlinson and his wife; Chester Hanacker and his daughter; Lilly Kertz and her husband; Zeph, Mel, Becky Seidelman, and on and on and on…
And Denny arrived with his roommate Bill, and another guy named Rob, who was apparently Jessica’s date. (“Why did Denny bring his roommate—ow,” Langley said, getting it in the ribs from his boss and friend Jackson. “What?” Langley said. Jackson rolled his eyes and Cassy leaned over to whisper something in Langley’s ear. “Oh,” he said, looking around at Denny and Bill again.)
Everyone had arrived—that is, except Alexandra and Gordon and Jessica; the latter, everyone understood, was floating around somewhere with a Brazilian drug runner, and the first two, according to Kate Benedict—who was up on the radar deck of the ship with her boyfriend—were coming out in the launch now.
“They were out on Long Island today,” Cassy said, standing at the railing with Langley and Jackson, sipping on a white wine spritzer that had been brought to her on a silver tray.
“She is a most attractive young woman,” Lord Gregory Hargrave said from behind them. All three of them turned around. “Mrs. Cochran, I believe I owe you an apology,” he said, smiling, offering his hand to her.
He was a very good-looking fellow, Lord Hargrave was, and it certainly helped his cause to know that he had not only inherited his title but that he had made it worth something again by parlaying mortgage land deeds into a media empire appraised at close to a billion pounds. He was clean shaven, with very white skin and the barest blush of red in his cheeks; his eyes were clear and pale blue; and he had the most attractive head of silver hair. And Lord Hargrave was not in a white dinner jacket; Lord Hargrave’s dinner jacket was demurely black.
“I hope you will forgive me for not properly identifying myself the last time we met,” he said, “but I was told that, had you known who I was, you might not have granted me permission to observe your newsroom.”
Cassy smiled, shaking his hand. “You’re right, I wouldn’t have. It’s a pleasure to see you again, Lord Hargrave.”
“Greg,” he said softly, leaning forward to smile at her.
“Watch it, Sir Smoothie,” Jackson said, patting Lord Hargrave’s shoulder with the back of his hand. Out of the corner of his mouth he added to Cassy, “Gotta watch out for these guys. Give the king a drink of water and a thousand years later they think the world still owes ‘em.”
“Charming fellow, he,” Lord Hargrave said to Cassy, smile expanding.
“There is a Lady Hargrave, you know,” Jackson told Cassy. “Locked up in some castle somewhere—so don’t tell me I didn’t warn you. Excuse me,” he added, touching her arm and then slapping Lord Hargrave’s back as he moved away, “but I want to meet Alexandra.”
Lord Hargrave stepped in next to Cassy at the railing to watch as the launch pulled alongside the ship. “I must say,” he said, “I was most impressed by your Miss Waring. She has a remarkable speaking voice for an American—that is to say, it has character but doesn’t carry the hard edge we have come to associate with the American manner of speaking.”
Cassy smiled, swallowing a sip of wine. Lowering her glass, she looked at him and said, “I didn’t know there was an American manner of speaking.”
“Exactly,” Lord Hargrave said, bowing slightly. “I did not wish to offend.”
The party had suddenly grown quite festive. The grips and gaffers and technicians and secretaries and assistants and executives
and correspondents and producers were all mixing on the aft deck; everyone was smiling and drinking and laughing and snacking; people’s eyes were sparkling, faces were sunburned, clothes were festive and spirits were high. The orchestra under the awning struck up the theme music to “DBS News America Tonight” as Jackson helped Alexandra step aboard, and people started crowding over to see her.
Alexandra’s smile grew wider and her eyes brighter as people made a fuss around her, over her, about her. And she was worth the fuss. Her hair was sensational; her little bit of suntan against the navy and white strapless floral dress made her eyes their drop-dead bluest, her teeth their whitest and the rest of her appear all body-brown-beautiful and long-limb extraordinaire. And just below her shoulder, amid the bare, smooth brown skin, was the mildly shocking reminder of the shooting in the form of her scar. The strange thing was, it only made Alexandra seem lovelier, her skin more beautiful, her neck longer, sleeker and the silver bar necklace around it more precious. And stranger yet, everyone seemed to want to touch it—the scar—as they came over to say hello. They would look into her eyes first and then glance down and see it. Immediately they would wince (as if Alexandra had been injured only just that second) and—after sucking in their breath between their teeth—they would make a motion to touch it, murmuring something like, “Oh, ow—how’s your shoulder? Does it hurt still?”
The party began in earnest and the guests fanned out over the ship, exploring what there was to do, where there was to go. There was the orchestra, of course, and dancing and drinks out here on the aft deck; below, there was a bar, and a dining salon with a buffet set up, and also an open gaming room with billiards, darts and pinball machine; there were the port and starboard decks and bow to roam, as well as the upper deck, the bridge, and the staterooms and bathrooms below.
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