A Ruling Passion

by Judith Michael

  "How about it, Chad?"

  Chad sat up guiltily. They were doing this fancy dinner party for his dad and he wasn't even paying attention. "What?"

  "Do you want to make a toast to Nick?" asked Ted. "You said, before dinner, you wanted to."

  "Oh, Yeah. I do." His dad was next to him and he saw his look of surprise as he fumbled in his pocket for the small piece of paper on which he'd written his toast. They were sitting at a round table in a private room in a restaurant, with lots of other round tables where all the people who had gotten Omega going in its first couple of years had eaten dinner and had lots of wine and told long stories about now the company used to be, and when Chad stood up he recognized almost all of them from his visits to the company and from the meetings they'd had with his dad at home. They'd been sort of like a bunch of uncles, like they were a family, Chad thought sadly, and now he wasn't going to have them anymore.

  He unfolded the piece of paper. Ted had told him what a toast was and he'd decided he ought to do it. Just about everybody else was, and his dad ought to have somebody in his family do it, too. If he had a wife she'd do it, but he didn't, and Chad's mother hadn't come for the party—he thought maybe somebody would have invited her, but he guessed nobody did, because she wasn't there—so there was just him. He didn't like the idea of getting up and talking in front of everybody, but he didn't want his dad to feel like Chad wasn't as proud of him as the rest of them, so okay, he thought, I'll do it, and he'd written it out the night before.

  "My dad is great," Chad read loudly, to cover up the shaking in his voice. "He's good at everything, and he listens when you want to talk, and he doesn't yell when you do something stupid. He doesn't laugh at you, either, if you make a mistake, and we do things together and they're fun because we like all the same things. If d be great if we could stay here where he's got all these friends and stuff, but we probably won't, but it was nice that everybody liked us and helped my dad make Omega 'cause that was his favorite thing for a long time, except for me. So I guess I should say good luck to us, like everybody else did, and tell my dad he's great, like everybody else did, only the difference is, he's mine, I mean he's my dad, and he's my friend, too, not the same as the guys at school but a different kind and maybe the best kind and thaf s... I guess that's the best of all."

  There was a silence as Chad sat down, as if everyone was holding his breath. Then someone started clapping and in a minute everyone was standing and applauding and grinning at him. And his dad had stood up and pulled him up with him and was hugging him so tight he thought he'd crack in two. But it didn't hurt; it really felt good. It was the best feeling in the world, and whatever they did, wherever they went, as long as his dad kept that up, as long as he kept loving him a lot, they'd be okay, and he wouldn't ever have to worry about being alone. Not ever.

  Sybille had invited them for Christmas, and since Chad was absolutely sure he did not want to go alone, the two of them flew to Washington as soon as Christmas vacation began. Before meeting Sybille for dinner, they went first, as they always did, to the Air and Space Museum, on the Mall, so Chad could walk through Skylab, peer inside the Apollo moon-landing module, stand beneath planes suspended from the ceiling, and point in amazement at the samples of rocks from the moon, even tiiough he and Nick both knew they looked just like rocks anyone could find anywhere on earth. They spent the entire afternoon at the museum; it was Chad's day. The next day would be Nick's and they would go to the National Gallery of Art, but Chad was used to that; part of the time he spent with his father, and the rest of the time he wandered around on his own, admiring the huge Calder mobile and riding the people-mover ramps. And the next day they'd go to the Children's Museum. That was the deal they had made: they split their time so nobody would feel bad.

  They had quiet dinners with Sybille for the four nights of their visit.

  "I have to leave three days after Christmas," she had told Nick when they were planning the trip. "I've been invited to a house party in Virginia. I'd rather be with you and Chad for New Year's, but there's no way I can get out of this. We'll have Christmas; that's better, really."

  They exchanged gifts in Sybille's living room and, as usual, Nick was uncomfortable and resdess, pacing, leafing through magazines and newspapers, trying to sit still. He had not found a way to avoid these family occasions that Sybille created, and he knew Chad loved them, so he went along, feeling helpless, and angry at his helplessness, convinced it was really weakness. If he were stronger, he thought, he'd send Chad alone to visit his mother, or at least see Sybille only in restaurants and other neutral places, and put a stop to the whole farce that had gone on ever since they divorced. But he did not know how to do it. He even brought Sybille a Christmas present, because, a few years earlier, Chad had burst into tears when he realized Nick expected the only exchange of gifts to be between him and his mother. This year Nick gave Sybille a small lapel pin, a leaping gold cheetah with diamonds for eyes. Her gift was far more elaborate: an eelskin briefcase fitted with gold pens and pencils, and sterling-silver letter opener, stapler, tape dispenser, clipboard and stamp holder. The stationery had been printed with his name; his initials in gold were on the briefcase.

  He was so angry he could barely thank her. But Chad was watching, his eyes round, and so once again he went through his pretenses, and then they went to dinner at the Olympian, where Sybille had reserved one of the black velvet booths at the back. By the time they were drinking coffee and Chad was sipping his third lemon seltzer through a straw, Nick was more relaxed. Sybille had done most of the talking. As if she knew how angry he had been, she was at her most pleasant and entertaining, talking about television, her production company, the actors and actresses with whom she worked. She found ways to bring Chad into her monologue, with questions or little jokes, and it seemed she was choosing anecdotes about entertainers who would most likely be familiar to him. Nick had never seen Chad so delighted with her.

  "Dad knows all about all that," Chad said at last. "Thafs just about all he does lately, is read about television. Books and magazines and the works." His eyes widened as a huge wedge of chocolate mousse cake was placed before him. "Wow," he whispered, and he picked up his fork.

  Sybille looked at Nick. "Really?"

  "A small exaggeration," Nick replied. "I read about a lot of things; television is one of them."

  'Tou watch too," said Chad through a mouthful of cake. "Lots more than you used to. You're an expert, too, as much as anybody."

  "Maybe he should buy a television network," Sybille said to Chad.

  Chad nodded vigorously. "He said we might. Or a tv station, or maybe start a station of our own. A big one, as big as NBC or ABC or whatever. We have lots of time now because Dad's not president of Omega anymore and he says he's looking for another garage, to start a new company in, but he's not; that's just a joke."

  "Notpresident ofOme^ia?^^ Sybille repeated.

  "Not for a while," Nick said.

  "You didn't tell me!"

  He looked at her in silence until she colored and looked away. "Of course you're not required to tell me what you do, but you know I'm interested in you... and Chad..."

  "It was in the newspapers," Nick said evenly.

  "But I only read the news about television. Something as big as that, Nick... I would have thought you'd tell me yourself."

  Chad was frowning, looking from one of them to the other.

  "Next time," Nick said, keeping his voice light, "you'll be the first to know."

  Sybille tightened her lips and Nick remembered her saying / hate it when you^re clever so many times during their marriage, and after. He led the conversation away from television, to films he had seen, and books he had read, and events in California. Chad ate his cake, listening to the comforting sounds of his parents' voices in friendly conversation.

  They were friendly for the next two days, sightseeing together around Washington, and then it was the last night of their visit and after dinner Sybill
e begged to come back to their suite at the Madison Hotel. She wanted to say good night to Chad in his bed, and goodbye, since she wouldn't see them in the morning; she was leaving early for her friend's house in Virginia. Nick, though not hiding his reluctance and annoyance, finally said she could. So Chad kissed his mother in bed, clinging to her and breathing in her perfiime with his eyes shut. "Merry Christmas and Happy New Year," he said. He wanted to tell her he loved her, but every time he thought about saying it he tightened up inside. She didn't seem to like it when he did, and he felt fiinny about his dad; he wasn't sure how he would feel if he knew

  Chad was saying it. So he settled for "Happy New Year," and in a minute Sybille moved away

  "Happy New Year, Chad. I hope you'll help your father decide what to do next..." She paused, looking at him thoughtfully "I wish you could live in Washington; then we could see each other whenever we wanted."

  Chad's eyes widened. She had never said that before. "I wish we could, too," he said.

  "Well, we'll have to think of a way. Maybe your father will buy a television station here, or start his own. He might like that, and it would be a good place for you to go to school. But you probably wouldn't want to leave San Jose."

  'Well, no, I mean, I didn't, but Dad wants to. He promised he wouldn't until I wanted to, too, and I said no, but... I don't know... maybe..."

  Sybille leaned down and touched her lips to his forehead. "We'll have to think about it, won't we? You get to sleep; maybe your dad and I will talk about it for awhile."

  Chad slid down in bed, his thoughts churning. "If you decide anything, wake me up and tell me."

  But Sybille was already out of the room, and on her way to the sitting room that joined Chad's room and Nick's. "He's so grown-up," she said, settling into an armchair. "Could I have a drink, Nick.> I'd like to talk for awhile; God knows when we'll see each other again."

  "Whenever you want," he said. "It's an easy plane trip from Washington to San Jose. Cognac?"

  "Yes. Are you relieved to be out of Omega?"

  "It wasn't a burden. It was just time for me to look for something else to do." He handed her a drink and sat in a nearby chair with his own. "What about you? Have you sold the network?"

  "No. I would have told you if I had." She paused to let it sink in. "Ifs very strange. I have some new programs; my ratings are going up; I've even gotten some columnists to write about me. And there's been a lot of interest: phone calls, accountants coming to look at the books; you know all about that. But no one's come up with the money They're such frightened little boys; there isn't a man among them! My lawyer says they don't want to take risks with cable, but that's crazy; look what CNN has done; look at the possibilities! Of course there are risks in television; no one should go into it unless he's ready to put all his energy and creativity into it—and a hell of a lot of money—and even then he could fall on his face. It isn't a place for

  timid men, or men who don't have absolute confidence in themselves." She sipped her cognac, and sighed. "Well, I suppose I'll find someone. The trouble is, there aren't many men who have confidence in themselves, and the money to back it up, and I'm so anxious to sell..."

  Nick grinned. "That's very good. It's almost as if you had someone in mind to buy it."

  "Damn you, Nick, don't play games. You know I do. I want you to buy it. Why shouldn't you? You want something new and you've never cared whether something was hard or not; why don't you do it?" She paused, looking at the deep-amber liquid in her glass. "Chad says he'd love it."

  "What does that mean?"

  "He says he'd love living here because then we could see each other whenever we wanted."

  "Chad said that?"

  "Just now, when we were saying good night."

  "What the hell did you tell him?"

  "Not much. When he said that, I felt so sorry for him—he looked so unhappy because you're leaving tomorrow—and I said maybe you'd buy a television station in Washington, or start one yourself I didn't say anything you hadn't already said yourself! And his face lit up; it was amazing."

  Nick frowned. "You shouldn't have said anything."

  "Why not? He's my son! Why shouldn't I have him living near me if thaf s what we both want?"

  "Is it what you want?"

  "I've always wanted it. There were just too many other things going on; I couldn't put my life together and do what I really knew was best for me... I always had to think of other people first. Nick..." She rose and went to sit on the arm of his chair. "We could do so much together. I think of you all the time, you know; what an idiot I was to let you send me away without a fight; what a fool I was to marry Quentin when all the time I loved you, you were the only one, and I've never stopped wanting you and needing you—"

  Nick left the chair and strode across the room. "I thought we'd gotten past that," he said, his voice hard and flat. "There is nothing between us, Sybille, there hasn't been for years, and you know it as well as I do. You don't love me any more than I love you. We aren't even friends; we don't have enough in common for that, and since we don't really like each other, there isn't the remotest chance that that will ever change." He contemplated the rigid anger in her face. "For

  God's sake, don't act as if I've insulted you; I only told you what we both already knew. Now we can go on to something else. You've made two pitches tonight; you failed with one, but we can talk about the other if you still want to."

  Slowly, the words sank in, and Sybille sat up straight on the arm of the chair. "You mean the network."

  "That's what I mean. Why don't you have another drink; I have some questions I'd like answered."

  Sterling Farms covered nearly six hundred acres of Virginia pasture-land that ebbed and flowed in rolling hills of close-cropped grass. A dusting of snow covered the land and clung to the branches of trees; weathered, unpainted fences followed the contours of the hills, stretching to the horizon; stone walls topped with rails bordered gravel roads. A painted rail fence bounded six acres near the center of the spread, and in their center was Carlton Sterling's house, twenty-five rooms sprawling over two floors beneath a steeply pitched gray shingle roof with eight chimneys and gabled second-floor windows. Stands of trees shielded the house from anyone who might wander onto the main road half a mile from the front door; behind the house, where no road intruded, were nestled two guest houses, the terrace, tennis courts and swimming pool. Sybille's room overlooked the terrace and the fields beyond and, beyond them, in the distance, the purple haze of the Blue Ridge Mountains. She had studied the house as Valerie led her through it. It was furnished in a hodgepodge of country pine and oak, overstuffed couches, worn antique rugs on hardwood floors, and floor lamps with fringed shades. It might have been chaotic, but instead it was harmonious: warm, inviting, lived-in. And it had the look of very deep, very old money.

  "Lunch in the small dining room at one," said Valerie as she checked on towels in the bathroom. "We'll only be five; everyone else should get here by dinnertime. I think you have everything, but if you get sudden urges, tell Sally. She's been here since Carl was a baby, and her mission is to make all of us happy. She's very good at it. Can I get you anything now?"

  "No. Thank you; it's fine. How many will there be for dinner?"

  "Twenty-five; Carl's off" hunting with friends and won't be here for a couple of days. You'll like all of them, I think; they talk horses more than I like, but everybody should be passionate about something, and that's what they're passionate about. Shall we go for a walk before lunch? I'll show you our horses." She broke off" in a laugh, her eyes

  dancing. "Look who's complaining about people talking horses too much. We do have other attractions; the greenhouses are wonderful, and I like the pond this time of year: frozen at the edges, with bare trees and a gardener's hut against a low hill—it's like a black-and-white photograph. And of course there are the horses. Did you bring your riding things?"

  "Tes. I'd like to see your horses."

  "Good.
Let's go. And we'll ride after lunch, if you'd like. Whatever you want, Sybille, just speak up. Ifs going to be a very loose three days."

  Sybille nodded. She could not imagine an unstructured hour, much less three days, but this was Middleburg, and Middleburg society, and she had a lot to learn before she became part of it. It was the second time Valerie Sterling was initiating her into a new way of life. The best way to learn, Sybille thought; make use of someone who owes me everything, and doesn't even know she's being used.

  Valerie pulled on a royal purple down jacket and a pair of high boots. "It gets muddy," she said. "If you don't have any, we can find you some."

  "Only riding boots," Sybille replied.

  "Well..." Valerie rummaged through a wooden box with a hinged lid. "Try these. They may be a little big, but that's better than too tight."

  "Are they yours?" Sybille asked, sitting on a bench and removing her shoes. "They look new."

  "They are. I bought them in the fall and never wore them. Will they do?"

  Sybille stood up. "They're fine." She gazed at the leather and rubber sorrels, and smiled to herself. She had always wanted to be in Valerie's shoes. "Where do we go first?"

  "The riding ring, the barns, the pond, the greenhouse. Is that all right with you? I don't much care; I just want to be outside. It seems I've been inside all week."

  "Doing what?" They were walking through a passageway that led to an open area of vegetable and flower gardens criss-crossed with brick paths. Along one side, attached to the kitchen wing of the house, were the greenhouses.

  "Board meetings," Valerie replied. She led Sybille through a break in a low hedge to a broad field with an outdoor riding ring. "And I filmed a television spot for a new exhibit at the Children's Museum in Washington—I produced that one, in fact; the first time I've done