Matt talked about Galveston as they walked through the terminal to the parking deck, describing the hurricane and tidal waves of 1900 that had killed six thousand people and destroyed the port and the town. "That's when they built the seawall. Wide enough for cars to drive and people to walk—"
"Is this yours?" Peter exclaimed.
Matt looked from the car he was unlocking to Peter's awestruck face. "It belongs to Rourke Enterprises. I get to use it."
"Is that the thing around here?" Peter asked. "For the company car to be a forty thousand dollar Mercedes?"
"Cars," Matt said briefly, putting Peter's duffle and Holly's overnight bag in the trunk and slamming it shut as Holly got in the back seat. "Rourke has four. Other companies have a dozen or more. And yes, that's the thing around here." He leaned against the hood. "There are five hundred and fifty square miles to Houston, so people spend a lot of time
in their cars. And they develop a deep, intimate, often passionate relationship with them." As he talked, he stroked the car with long, delicate passes of his fingertips. Peter began to grin. Finally he burst out laughing, and then they were laughing together. "So you see why it's the thing to have Mercedes or Cadillacs as company cars." They sat in the front seat, and Matt turned the key and then the air conditioning controls. "Give it a minute and it will be fine in here."
"Is it always this hot?" Holly asked. Ever since they left the terminal, she'd felt as if she'd walked into a wall of humid heat. "How do people stand it?"
"It's like this only about half the year, and people stand it because they live here, just as we accept the dust in Santa Fe. And there are the winter months to look forward to."
"How hot is it?" Peter asked.
"Now? About ninety, I suppose." Matt turned onto the expressway. "But what makes Houston memorable is that the humidity is ninety percent or more. It's a climate beloved of mosquitos, and, before air conditioning, not much else."
"I like Santa Fe better," Holly said. "You don't feel like you're sagging."
Matt smiled. "A dry desert is definitely better than a soggy bayou. But you won't sag too far, Holly; everything is air conditioned. Speaking of which, I should warn you: I have a new apartment."
"Warn?" Peter echoed. "It's like the Mercedes?"
Matt looked at him sharply. "A little bit. It's a bigger place than I need, and the building is a little intimidating, but I'll be doing some entertaining, so it's probably not a bad place for me to be, at least for a while." Silence fell. Then he began talking about Houston's history and its future, telling the anecdotes he'd been storing up just for this moment, so he could put off the accusations of his children.
Though they were hardly children anymore, he thought, driving through the black wrought-iron gates of his building. They were a man and woman, beautiful and bright, with intelligence and charm and the right to make certain demands on him. But that describes my wife, too, he thought, and it hasn't been enough to stop the changes in our lives. He wished Elizabeth had come, too. He should have called her, invited her himself, instead of that casual suggestion tossed out to Peter on the tele-phone, almost as if he didn't quite mean it. Well, maybe he really hadn't quite meant it, and Peter picked that up. Maybe he'd really wanted a weekend alone with his kids. Maybe he thought they could learn something about each other if they had time to relax and talk.
Holly and Peter had been eyeing the building, tall and white with terraces at every corner. It stood alone, separated from the nearby town-houses by landscaped grounds and gardens behind a high stone wall. Matt had driven through the gates and straight ahead to the garage ramp, bypassing the branch of the driveway that curved around a fountain and beneath a canopy sheltering the smoked glass entrance doors, but Peter and Holly had glimpsed the uniformed doorman at his desk. "Keeps out the riffraff," Peter murmured. But he said nothing to his father, following silently as they took the elevator to the thirty-second floor.
Matt still wasn't used to the apartment, and when he heard Holly's exclamations of wonder, and saw Peter's stony face, he felt as if he too were seeing it for the first time, as he had three weeks earlier when he'd mentioned to Nicole he'd be looking for a place of his own instead of the furnished apartment he'd been renting. She had told him Rourke owned three, for visitors, and she'd just finished decorating one of them. "It's a little big, but of course you'll be entertaining, so you can use the space, and the colors are perfect for you. In fact, it seems made for you."
"Was it?" Matt asked abruptly.
She smiled. "Not exclusively. But Keegan did mention that you'd likely be here most of the time, after a while, and it would be nice to have something in keeping with your position waiting for you, and since the apartment did need redecorating, it seemed like a good idea. ..." She had looked at him with the combination of honesty and calculation that always piqued his interest because it left him wondering what she was really thinking behind those magnificent amber eyes. "Well, of course I decorated it for you," she said. "I was thinking of you the whole time. But if you decide not to use it, my feelings won't be hurt. I'll even help you find something else, if you'd like."
He hadn't needed to find anything else. Once past the marble-floored lobby, paneled in butternut and hung with crystal chandeliers, he'd been unable to resist the luxurious rooms, especially the space, three times larger than the apartment he'd been renting, and the combination of lightness and solid comfort Nicole had achieved with shades of blue, gray, and rust, and flashes of white, against walls of serene, pale gray. The apartment, taking one whole floor of the building, was wrapped in glass walls, and when Matt walked in with Peter and Holly all the blinds were partially closed against the relentless June sun, but, still, light was every-where, brightening the huge living room, dining room, and study, reflecting off oak and brass, so there seemed no barrier between the brightness of the Texas sky and the earth-and-sky colors of the rooms.
His lips tight, Peter followed Matt and Holly. Years of studying art
made him respond to the paintings and silver and gold sculptures, and the elegance of the rooms, but he didn't feel comfortable in them: they were too perfect, everything matching everything else, everything in its place. He thought of their low-ceilinged house in Santa Fe, with its vivid colors and casual air, always sort of rumpled because somebody hadn't put something away, cool because of thick adobe walls rather than air conditioning hissing at you. It wasn't perfect, but at least it looked like people really lived in it. Just then they came to the larger of the two bedrooms and he saw his Dad's slippers, side by side next to the bed. Suddenly he felt like crying. Shit, he thought; I'll be damned if he'll see me cry. He turned and left the room, and in a flat voice said, "I guess you're making a lot of money now."
"Two hundred thousand a year," Matt replied just as flatly. "Your mother knows that; there's no reason why you shouldn't. Holly, here's your room; Peter gets the study. The sofa bed's ready for you, Peter; I made it up earlier."
"No maid?" Peter asked. He tried to sneer but he was still having trouble with a lump in his throat.
"I have a maid. She doesn't come on Saturday." Matt opened doors. "Holly's bathroom. Peter's. Kitchen. I stocked the refrigerator; help yourself whenever you like. Now I have a couple of quick phone calls to make, and then we'll get going. Did you bring jeans? Why don't you change while I make my calls; you'll be more comfortable. Sound okay?"
"Of course," Holly said, feeling sorry for him because he was even more nervous than they were. But she felt sorry for Peter, too: angry Peter, trying so hard not to love his father. I'm the only one who understands everybody, Holly thought. I know Daddy's here because you can't let a really big chance go by when it comes, and I know Mother wanted to keep our family together, but she shouldn't have tried to hold Daddy back because that only pushed him away and I wonder if he's got any—
But Holly didn't want to think about Matt and other women; she would rather believe there was no one else in his life but his wife, who didn't und
erstand him, and his daughter, who did. And when Matt gave her a quick hug as they went down in the elevator, and asked her to sit in front while they drove so she could tell him about the opera company, it was easy to believe she was right.
"We start at nine," she said as they drove out of the densely crowded city. On the highway, Matt set the cruise control and they glided in their air-conditioned cocoon between flat fields dotted with small oil and gas wells, their arms pumping rhythmically above the green fields. "My first class is Body Movement. Walking, sitting, turning, all the things you
never think about but there are so many ways to do them! And to show how you feel with your body instead of always using your voice and your face . . . !"
Matt smiled. "You walk like a dancer."
"I'm learning, I'm practicing, but I have so much to learn! Where was I? Oh, Body Movement. After that we have classes in makeup and hair styling and languages and how to move and stand on stage; we have voice lessons and also we have individual coaching; we go to master classes taught by visiting singers and experts on the operas . . . what did I leave out?"
"Rehearsals," said Peter dryly from the back seat. "They're so dull you forgot them."
They all laughed and Holly thought what a lovely sound it was; it made everything seem fine. "They're more exciting than anything," she told Matt. "It's all new and I've never done anything like it, but, it's the funniest thing, in a way it's like I've been getting ready for it all my life. Do you know what I mean?" Matt gave her a brief look and a nod; he was listening intently. "We're doing six operas, in repertory—we're learning them all at once!—and you can't imagine what it's like, Daddy ... everything feels so . . . bright, and exciting, even the hard work, because you're with professionals—and they've been all over the world and they know so much and they're so good!—and it's like you're sort of on trial but everybody's helping you, too, because we all want the same thing—a perfect performance—and you're always stretching to be better than you are because there's always sort of a new test coming up, not a test, really, it's more like a new challenge, and you want to be perfect and impress everybody and do all the things you've always dreamed about. ..."
Her voice trailed away as she watched Matt's face. She glanced behind her, at Peter, scowling as he contemplated his father's profile. "That's how you feel," she said to Matt. "Working for Mr. Rourke and meeting all those other newspaper people and politicians. You feel the same way, don't you?"
"In a nutshell," Matt said quietly. His face was somber.
Holly looked out the window. She didn't really want to hear about his exciting life. "Look at that," she said, gesturing toward a landscaped shopping plaza. "Palm trees and cactus, side by side. How can they both grow in the same place?"
"And holly," Matt added. "Those hedges are holly, bright and beautiful, like their namesake." He put out his hand and smoothed the back of her head. "And they all grow here because they're hardy breeds. It
doesn't take long for them to adapt to a foreign environment and begin to thrive."
"Like newspaper publishers," said Peter.
The car was silent. "And even after the season starts," Holly said, as if there had been no break in her description of her schedule, "when we have performances every night, we still have classes and lectures all day, and, sometimes, auditions for new parts in the operas. And that goes on for three months."
"A busy summer," said Matt. "And I can't imagine a more wonderful one." The silence returned. "Peter," he said, "we'll talk in Galveston."
"Sure," Peter said.
For the rest of the drive, Matt and Holly talked, until they drove across the long bridge to the island and Matt gave them a sightseeing tour along streets lined with oleander, past houses built in the 1840s, and enormous Victorian mansions being restored and opened to the public. They drove to the beach and Matt parked on the sand. The tide was coming in, splashing in long gray waves that broke slowly and slowly receded, leaving a thin outline of foam that faded and disappeared. Egrets and spoonbills rose on huge wings, settling back on the sand a few feet from where they began. Gulls cried to each other; slanting rays of sunlight glinted off shells at the water line.
Holly pulled off her loafers and socks. "You too, Peter," she said, her voice gentle but insistent. "Because I thought we'd have a race, but if you're groaning about sand in your shoes, and stopping to shake them out, you'll lose. Of course you'll lose anyway, because I'm faster than you and my Body Movement Class has taught me the proper way to run, but if you're barefoot you might have a chance —"
"Ha!" snorted Peter. He knew she was trying to distract him and cheer him up, and he appreciated it, but since when did she think she could beat him? And what was this shit about the "proper way to run"? Without another word, he pulled off his shoes and socks and ran past her to the beach.
He heard Holly's outraged cry and lengthened his stride, but he didn't really care who won; he took deep breaths of the fresh smell of the ocean and heard the calls of a dozen different birds, and as his muscles stretched and his bare soles slapped against the ridges in the hard, wet sand, all of a sudden he felt so free and joyous he wanted to shout. Even when Holly's shadow appeared beside him, and he knew she really had learned to run, he felt wonderful, and he turned and grinned at her to show her that everything was fine.
Matt watched them: his two long-limbed, beautiful youngsters, laugh-
ing together as they raced, kicking up small spurts of sand and sprays of water as they dodged the incoming tide. Loving them, he ached for them. / wish they could keep this all their lives: laughter and freedom and the whole world stretching in front of them. . . .
But later, after the three of them had walked together and found a place to sit on the dry sand farthest from the water, he said, "The trouble is, we can't hold onto the freedom we have when we're young. The minute we decide where we're going, what we want to do with our lives, what we want to be, our choices get narrower: the steps we have to take, the rules we have to follow, the connections we have to make with other people, whether we want to or not. ..."
"You mean you're living in Houston and hating every minute of it," Peter said.
"I mean I'm living in Houston because that's the only choice I had, to be what I want to be."
Peter tried to recapture his anger, but he couldn't do it. The sun beat down, mixed with a cool ocean breeze and saltwater smell, and he sifted warm sand through his fingers. Slowly, he said to Matt, "Maybe you shouldn't be . . . whatever you want to be. Not if you've got a family to think about."
"Well, let's talk about that." Matt leaned back, his hands in the warm sand, and gazed at a quartet of white pelicans standing in the foam of breaking waves, looking like a group of politicians debating which direction to go. "I have two children, but they're grown up now. My son is leaving for college in a couple of months; my daughter leaves next year. And for a long time they've been building their own lives, pulling away from their parents, not needing them in the ways they used to. Even if I still lived with you, you'd be the ones to go away—"
"Mother isn't going anywhere!"
"She could have; I asked her to. She made a different choice."
"Why?" Holly asked.
"That's something she should tell you herself. I'm surprised you haven't asked her."
"We have," Holly said. "She said you have different goals."
"She's right. And the goals I've set for myself—"
"Goals!" growled Peter. "You two sound like a college catalogue."
Matt chuckled. "Maybe we do." He became serious. "I know, what you want to hear about are feelings. Well, I feel your mother wants to hold me back from the goals—sorry—from going as far as I can in running a newspaper chain that can give me the kind of power and influence I've always dreamed of. And your mother doesn't like it when I say I
intend to concentrate on that and put off other things until I'm established; at least until I know how far I can go. She doesn't like what I'm doing; s
he doesn't like the people I'm doing it with; she doesn't like the decisions I'm making; she doesn't like the way I think about the future; she doesn't like the way I remember the past."
"But she likes you," Holly said in a small voice.
At that, a sense of loss swept over Matt, and his fingers clenched in the loose sand. But he kept his voice even. "We like each other. But it isn't enough, Holly. Look: what would you have done if we'd told you to give up the opera this summer and move to Houston?"
"I wouldn't do it."
"Of course you wouldn't. It would have been the wrong thing for you to do. And we would have been terribly wrong if we told you to. No one should tell another person to give up a great chance. They come too rarely."
"Then what do you do when you disagree?"
"You compromise."
"Which means doing it your way," said Peter.
"Maybe. At least trying it for a while."
"Mother needs to be taken care of!" Peter said flatly. "You left her to handle the house and a job—two jobs—"
"Two?"
"Her column and what's-his-name's show."
"Why do you always pretend to forget it?" Holly exclaimed. "Tony Rourke. And his show is 'Anthony,' and Mother does one interview a week on it." She looked at Matt. "I thought you knew."
"She said something about it, in May." His eyes were on the horizon. "I guess I wasn't paying much attention."
"Well, anyway," Peter went on insistently, "she's got the house and two jobs and our problems to listen to, and she still works with Saul sometimes at the Chieftain, and I don't know what else, but she's all alone—!"
"She has you and Holly. She has her parents, her friends—"
"She doesn't have a husband living with her! When I leave, who's going to take care of her?"
Private affairs : a novel Page 31