A Ruling Passion

by Judith Michael

anything like that. It's more your field than mine."

  "Maybe you'll do more of it," said Sybille.

  Valerie turned quickly, and Sybille thought her voice must have given her away, and shown her anger. "I mean," she said more smoothly, "maybe you'd rather do that than appear on camera."

  "I don't know." Valerie turned back and they walked on, around the riding ring. "God knows I want something more, but I don't know what it is." She gave a ruefiil laugh. "It's hard to look as if you have everything; it seems so insatiable to ask for more."

  "More what.^" Sybille asked. "There's nothing you don't have."

  "You mean I have money. Well, you have money; do you have everiJiing?"

  "Not enough. Anyway, I want more than money."

  Valerie laughed again. "There you are. There's always something more. And lately I've been feeling I've missed out on something; I don't know what, but I feel on edge, as if I'm waiting for something to happen, for something to show up that forces me to act, to be different in some way from the way I've always been It's a little unnerving, waiting for something when I have no idea what it is, or if there really is anything to wait for. I've never felt this before; it has a kind of urgency: if I don't do it now I'll never have a chance..." She stopped and leaned her arms on the top rail of the fence surrounding the ring, as if she were watching a horse go through its jumps. "I think about children a lot. I don't think thafs what I'm waiting for, but maybe it is. I have to make up my mind pretty soon, but I always stop short of deciding. What about you, Sybille? Do you want more children?"

  "No." Sybille heard how abrupt she sounded, and tried to soften it, though she had not once thought of having more children. "I've thought about it, and I'd love to, but I don't see how I can. I'm not going to get married just so I can have a baby, and I have to earn a living, you know; that takes just about all the time I've got." She leaned against the fence next to Valerie and averted her face. "I messed up so badly, with Chad—letting Nick take him away from me, letting him talk me into not visiting very often because it upset Chad's schedule, letting him get all the ftm of Chad's growing up—I shouldn't have allowed any of it; I should have insisted on having my own son and then I wouldn't be so alone now..."

  Valerie tried to see her face, but Sybille kept it turned away. "I didn't know Nick made it hard for you to visit them," she said, puzzled. "It doesn't sound like the kind of thing he'd do."

  "You don't know what Nick would do! You haven't seen him for

  eight years and you were never married—" Sybille bit off her words. "I'm sorry," she said miserably. "I get so upset about Chad, and then Quentin being gone, and there's so much to do at work and I don't have anyone to talk to or ask for advice... I'm sorry I was so rude."

  "You weren't rude; it's not important." Valerie stared at the center of the ring, not seeing it. She was remembering the times Nick had talked about their having children.

  "What about Carlton?" Sybille asked, her voice muffled as if she were forcing back tears. "He must want children."

  "He wants to wait, but he isn't the one who has to worry about being almost thirty-one. He likes being an investment counselor and he's one of the best there is; he loves playing polo and he's one of the best at that. He's happiest working and playing; he doesn't seem happy at all about fatherhood."

  "Or being a husband," Sybille said shrewdly.

  "He doesn't know that." The two women looked at each other in a rare moment of understanding. "He thinks he loves being a husband, and sometimes he does. It depends on how easy I make it for him. If I'm like his polo team or his clients, and don't demand true intimacy—" She broke off, having said more, it seemed, than she allowed herself. "He's still a good friend, and I wouldn't ask more of him than that."

  'Tou don't want any more than that?"

  "I might, but I'll take what I've got. Weren't you and Quentin good friends?"

  "Yes, and business partners. But I wouldn't have married him if I hadn't loved him." Valerie nodded and Sybille was not sure whether she believed her or not. "So you don't love Carl?" she asked.

  There was a pause. 'Yes," Valerie said quiedy. "I love him. Well, now, you've seen the riding ring; the barns are next." She stood and strode off, leaving Sybille to follow on a tour of the bleached-wood barns in which were boarded twelve horses for friends and neighbors who spent most of their time traveling, and the eight owned by Valerie and Carlton, and the indoor winter riding arena with a glass wall that displayed the panorama of the snow-covered countryside and sunsets over the distant Blue Ridge. And for the rest of that day, and the three days that followed, Valerie never again talked about herself, or Carlton.

  But Sybille did not care. She had learned a great deal that day, and while she was there she learned more. She watched and listened, she noted the clothes and jewelry of the guests who were, to her, Middle-

  burg society, and she memorized the speech patterns and phrases of people whose comfortable lives were bounded by horses and wealth. She watched Valerie, who was the most perfect hostess she had ever seen: watchful, genuinely interested in her guests, helpful without being officious, gracefully bringing everyone into the life of Sterling Farms. She seemed to be everywhere at once, making sure no one was ignored, yet she never intruded on the authority of Sally, the head housekeeper, who really ran the house and kept the schedules moving smoothly. Reluctandy, Sybille admired her: as shallow and stupid as Valerie was, she did this one thing superbly.

  And so Sybille watched and learned, and within two days she began to think of herself as one of them. All she needed was her own house and farms, and staff, and she would truly be part of Middleburg.

  On the last morning of the year, Carlton Sterling came back from his hunting trip. In the confusion of greeting his twenty-four guests, he barely acknowledged Sybille, and she had only a quick impression of a long face with shadows at the temples, blond hair thinning on top, a sharp glcJice that seemed wary, and a boyish grin that made him look young and innocent, almost untested.

  Sybille watched him that day as he talked with his friends, laughing at inside jokes she did not understand, tossing out names she could not identify, bantering with the intimacy of one who had shared a way of life for years, and whose parents had shared it before him. When he came to her, she had no idea what to say to him. "Sybille Enderby," he said. "You've known Val for years; since childhood. You lived in New York but now you're in Washington, at the Watergate; your husband was Quentin Enderby and he died last year—I was sorry to hear that —and you own EBN. What else should I know about you?"

  "I can't imagine," said Sybille coolly.

  "Oh, hell, I've offended you. Have I? My God, you have the most incredible eyes; like beacons. Look, I always do that when I meet someone—go through my inventory—otherwise I never remember a name and Val says that's what really gets people's backs up. It's like my portable Rolodex; it doesn't mean a thing. Am I forgiven? I want to know all about you; Val says you always do what you set out to do. I want to know how you do that, what you like and what you don't like, what you look for when you go shopping, what kind of horse you like. Books, movies, music. And so on. Can I have enough of your time to get all that?"

  He was behaving like a teenager leading up to a first date, Sybille thought, and wondered what he was hiding behind that pose. "You

  can have all the time you want," she said, not as cool this time. "I'd like to know about you, too. Valerie's said enough to make me curious."

  He shot her a look. "You said that so I'd trot off to Val and ask her what she's been saying about me."

  Sybille shook her head. "I said it so you'd want to spend more time talking to me so you could find out what she said."

  He laughed. "You're as honest as they come, aren't you? Well, I'm flattered. Why don't we settle down in the den? There's a fire there, and the place ought to be deserted for an hour at least, until everybody descends for drinks. Shall we sit and talk for a while? Or would you rather ride? You do ride?"
>
  "Yes. Not as well as you, I'm sure."

  "Never apologize before you do something. Plenty of time afterward. Well, what will it be? Riding or talking?"

  "Talking, for now."

  "Good." He led the way to the den, but in fact it was not empty, and before Carlton could choose another place he had been drawn into conversation with the group already sitting near the fire. He and Sybille had no time to talk all that day. Sybille did not mind. She was satisfied to stay near him, watching him, knowing he was aware of her, and intrigued. He'd admired her eyes; she knew he admired her looks: sleek and polished next to most of the country-casual guests. He was interested, he was intrigued. He was Valerie's husband. She watched him, and stayed close. Once, taking a step back, he bumped into her and put his arms around her to steady her. She said nothing, but she made it clear she was extricating herself with reluctance. And then, when the last of the guests arrived and drinks were poured, Valerie stood near the fireplace. "This is the first time you'll hear this tonight, but not by any means the last," she said, and raised her glass. "Happy New Year, my friends."

  The phrase was repeated by others; the wood-paneled room echoed with warm voices and laughter. In the corner, silently, Sybille looked at Carlton and held his eyes. Their glasses touched, their fingers brushed against each other. "Happy New Year, Carl," Sybille murmured, and she smiled.

  Chapter 16

  / m / ick and Chad moved to Washington in June, as

  / ■ / soon as Chad's summer vacation began. The mov-

  I / ■/ ing van came early and stayed late, emptying the

  > H rooms until the house looked to Chad like a skele-

  ton, bare and cold, with nothing familiar about it. Then, while Elena and Manuel drove across the country on a month's vacation that was a present from Nick, Chad and Nick flew to Washington in one leap that changed everything in their lives, forever.

  Nick had been there twice, alone, working with his lawyers on the purchase of EBN and, on his second trip, buying a house. It was on N Street in Georgetown, dating from 1819, four stories high, of red brick with black shutters, big square rooms with fireplaces, steep narrow stairways, and high ceilings with carved moldings. Tall trees made a leafy tunnel over the sloping street and the brick sidewalk in front of the house. A few blocks away, on Wisconsin and M Streets, were restaurants, little shops, and art galleries, and an enormous shopping mall built to look like a turn-of-the-century main street with gas lamps, paved streets, splashing fountains, and wrought-iron railings on the staircases.

  Georgetown was like a small village, and Chad and Nick explored its narrow streets together. They rode their bicycles along the thin slip of the Chesapeake and Ohio Canal, sharing the path with other bikers and hikers, and watching the mule-drawn barges, thinking they were like pictures in Chad's history books. They rode past shops and restaurants made to look like buildings of the 1700s and 1800s, and then along the residential streets, past rows of Federal-style houses pressed against each other the length of each block and built right up to the sidewalk, with small front porches or stoops, their backyards hidden behind high walls. All the houses were at least a hundred years old, sometimes two hundred, their bricks mellowed to a dark lustre, their muUioned windows reflecting the old-fashioned streetlights in wavery images, their doors heavy, with carved wood and etched-glass inserts. Nothing could have been farther from their neighborhood in San Jose, where the houses were new, the yards big and open, with the hot sunlight reflecting off" pastel colors and towering palms.

  Chad had been absolutely sure he would hate Uving in Washington, but he never had time to hate anything. His room in the house in Georgetown took up most of the third floor, and he spent an ecstatic week with Nick buying furniture for it and finding perfect places for all his familiar possessions. He helped Nick organize the other rooms, getting used to the high ceilings and tall narrow windows that contrasted with the square shapes he had been used to in their house in San Jose.

  The second week, he began going to a day camp in Virginia, learning archery, horseback riding, swimming, tennis, soccer and polo. He took the bus early in the morning and returned just before dinner. He barely had time to think of Cahfomia, much less miss it, nor did he have more than a few minutes a day to wonder why his mother had arranged an evening with him only once since they arrived; hardly the regular visits she had predicted.

  "We'll work out a schedule when we're all setded," Nick said at dinner the fourth week they were in Washington. They had taken a long walk to Vincenzo for ItaUan food. 'Tou may not see her as often as you'd like, but you'll be able to visit without me hanging around and that's a whole different way you'll get to know each other."

  "1 like it when you're hanging around," said Chad. He concentrated on his fish. "Sometimes... 1 can't think of things to say Like we don't have a lot to talk about. But she's my mother."

  "Well, that's not so terrible," Nick said casually. "It happens to everybody, not just you. Sometimes conversations just run out of

  Steam. The trouble is, most people worry that there's something wrong with them if they can't think of something to say. But nothing's wrong; they just need a little rest, a chance to decide what's important enough to share with another person. Babbling just to fill a silence is worse than silence itself. My suggestion is, if you can't think of something to say, sit quietly and look thoughtfiil and wise. That impresses everybody. Pretty soon your mother will find something to say. Or you will. Just don't worry about those pauses; they definitely don't mean you and your mother have nothing to talk about."

  "Okay," Chad said. "Thanks." He moved snow peas around his plate. "So you won't be coming with us when we go places.>"

  'It's better if I don't, Chad."

  "Will you go out with other people when I'm with her?"

  "I might. I'm just beginning to make friends, though. Like you."

  "You've met a lot of people."

  "Mostly business people. That's part of my job."

  "But a lot of business people are women."

  Nick grinned. "And a good thing, too."

  "And you go out with them.>"

  "Sometimes."

  "But you work, too, at night, after I go to bed, like at Omega. I mean, you don't always go out with people."

  "I'm working lots of nights and it is like Omega. I've gotten myself into another job that takes a lot of time and concentration."

  "Why?"

  "Because I'm learning a new business, and I've hired two vice-presidents and we're learning to work together, and because we need new programs, new ideas, a whole new way of thinking about what we're doing."

  "Whaf s wrong with the way Mother did it?"

  "I didn't agree with a lot of the things she did. I told you that."

  "Yeh, but... Like what?"

  "Like making everything seem happy. She called it 'television of joy' and it was full of something called 'moments'—litde dramatic scenes that take people's minds off the big story by focusing on small human-interest ones. I think people are grown-up enough to know that the world is full of things that are sad or tragic or dangerous, as well as happy and funny and hopeful, and I think television's job is to show all parts of the world as accurately as possible, whether they're pretty or not. So I'm making a lot of changes."

  Chad nodded soberly, though Nick knew, from past discussions.

  that he grew bored whenever the talk turned to television's responsibility. "Are you firing lots of people?" he asked.

  "A few."

  "Famous people?"

  "Hardly. We don't have any. I hope we will, pretty soon."

  "Who did you fire first?"

  "A man named Morton Case. I've been thinking he should be fired for almost nine years."

  "That's when I was born."

  "I first saw him when you were a baby. He was on a show called 'The Hot Seat.' I've never liked him."

  "Did Mother?"

  "Yes; it's another thing we don't agree about."


  "Does she know you fired him?"

  "I'd guess that by now she does."

  Chad was silent for a moment, watching the waiter put a plate of zuccotto before him. "I guess it'll be all right," he said, and Nick did not ask him what he meant. Whatever it was, Chad was making his own adjustments. If something was not going to be all right, he hoped Chad would come to him, but even then he would not push it. At nine, Chad had a quick, curious mind and a wide-ranging imagination; he read voraciously, watched the television Nick allowed, enjoyed sports, and made firiends easily. He had a full life, as hill as Nick could help him make it. He knew what it was to be deeply loved, and he was learning to deal with pain. There wasn't much more Nick could do for him, except be available when he wanted to share joy or be comforted.

  One thing he would not do was work out the arrangements for Chad and Sybille to be together. They were barely fifteen minutes apart now, from Georgetown to the Watergate, and it would be up to them to work out their visiting schedules. Nick was going to concentrate on himself for a while. He had a demanding, challenging job, and he wanted to meet as many people as possible and find someone to love; he wanted to remarry. He had no idea why he thought it would be easier to find someone in Washington than in California; probably because everything was new, and expectations always rise with a change in scenery.

  While Chad was in camp he explored Washington by himself, discovering parts of the city he had never seen, and looking at the familiar parts for the first time with the eye of a resident. The streets were broad and clean, the traffic circles dizzying, the buildings low, regular, evenly spaced, giving an impression of harmony that never became

  monotonous. Space and light were everywhere, an East coast light a little dimmer and denser than California's, not as ethereal; and as it illuminated grassy expanses and marble monuments, there was no sign of the murky business of government. For the visitor or the new resident, Washington offered a facade of cleanliness, openness, honesty, diligence, sobriety, and hope for a shining future. It symbolized, as few capitals do, its own myth, and the dream and prayer of every populace.