They are about to discover that a life full of
secrets comes at a very high price.…
TESSA KENT—Her life is filled with fame, fortune, and passion—but the stunningly beautiful actress is denied the one thing she wants most: the love of her daughter, Maggie.
MAGGIE HORVATH—She traded her birthright and a multimillion-dollar inheritance for her independence. But her rise to power at legendary auction house Scott & Scott comes with a cost of its own.
AGNES HORVATH—A fiercely overprotective stage mother, she refused to let a teenage pregnancy stand in the way of her daughter’s chance for stardom.
MIMI PETERSON—She’s the last person alive who knows a famous woman’s shocking secret … one that is now in danger of being revealed.
RODDY FENSTERWALD—The revered film director discovers an ingenue who takes Hollywood—and his older, playboy friend’s heart—by storm.
LUKE BLAKE—Forced to share his famous wife with a world of admirers, the billionaire lavishes her with love and priceless jewels … treasures that come to mean everything.
BARNEY WEBSTER—Sexy, charming, and rich, he’s the most eligible bachelor to hit Manhattan—until the true love he’s denied for years makes a daring move.
MADISON WEBSTER—Forced to raise another woman’s child, she feels her hatred of the girl grow with each passing day. But will her jealousy cost her her own son?
POLLY GUILDENSTERN—The entrepreneurial jewelry designer’s life changes forever when she’s introduced to her mysterious new roommate’s privileged world.
ANDY McCLOUD—Why is the ambitious and overqualified hunk working as a temp at Scott & Scott? The answer shocks the woman he loves.
LIZ SINCLAIR—Half-owner of Scott & Scott, she’s thrilled when the biggest coup of her career drops into her lap. But it comes with shocking conditions.
SAM CONWAY—Every actress wants to play the lead character in the movie based on his hot bestseller. But only one will walk away with the role—and his heart.
Other books by Judith Krantz
SCRUPLES
PRINCESS DAISY
MISTRAL’S DAUGHTER
I’LL TAKE MANHATTAN
TILL WE MEET AGAIN
DAZZLE
SCRUPLES TWO
LOVERS
SPRING COLLECTION
This edition contains the complete text
of the original hardcover edition.
NOT ONE WORD HAS BEEN OMITTED.
THE JEWELS OF TESSA KENT
A Bantam Book / published by arrangement with
Crown Publishers, Inc.
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Crown hardcover edition published November 1998
Bantam paperback edition / November 1999
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1998 by Judith Krantz.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 98-12971
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form
or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,
without permission in writing from the publisher.
For information address: Crown Publishers, Inc.,
201 East 50th Street, New York, New York 10022.
eISBN: 978-0-307-80133-3
Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036.
v3.1
For Andrea Louise Van de Kamp, Chairman of Sotheby’s West Coast Operations, Senior Vice President of Sotheby’s, and Chairman and CEO of the Music Center of Los Angeles County.
Even if Andrea hadn’t suggested I write a novel based on the auction business and given me an opportunity to do my research at Sotheby’s, I would have dedicated this novel to her because she is the most vibrant, life-enhancing and utterly solid friend one could have. A multitude claim her and rejoice in her.
Great cities are defined by their great people, and no one defines Los Angeles as well as Andrea. Her vast and genuine enthusiasms, her wonderfully inclusive laugh, her extraordinary generosity and her immense charm are legend. Only Andrea could work as effectively as she does at her demanding jobs without ever losing her focus, her sense of humor—or a battle.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
While I researched The Jewels of Tessa Kent, I needed a good deal of expert advice on the auction business, on medical issues, and on certain details of the Catholic Church. I’m wholeheartedly grateful to every one of the generous people who allowed me to question them and gave me such valuable answers.
Diana Phillips, Senior Vice President Sotheby’s, Director of Public Relations.
Mallory May, Assistant Vice President Press Office, Sotheby’s, North America.
John D. Block, Vice Chairman Sotheby’s, North America, and Director of International Jewelry, North America.
Tracy Sherman, Vice President, Jewelry Department, Sotheby’s, Beverly Hills.
Carol Elkens, Assistant Vice President, Jewelry Department, Sotheby’s, Beverly Hills.
Elise B. Misiorowski, G. G. Gemological Institute of America.
Dr. Melani P. Shaum, M.D.
Dr. Mark Hyman, M.D.
Dr. Norman Schulman, M.D.
Sister Karen M. Kennelly, CSJ, President, Mount St. Mary’s College, Los Angeles.
Lynn Marie Blocker Krantz
Professor Patricia Byrne, Trinity College, Connecticut.
David W. Moreno, Tiffany & Co., Beverly Hills.
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
About the Author
Prologue
Quickly, Tessa Kent stepped out of the bank and crossed the strip of New York pavement. The door of her parked limo was held open by the driver. She slid inside, grateful that she’d left a coat on the seat when she’d entered the bank much earlier in the day. It had been a morning of indecisive weather, early fall weather, but now the afternoon sun had disappeared behind clouds that promised rain before nightfall on this mid-September day in 1993.
“Where to, Miss Kent?” Ralph, the driver, asked.
“Wait right here for a while, Ralph, there’s something I want to see,” she answered impulsively, surprising herself, and pulled the c
oat over her shoulders.
All through the endless afternoon at the bank, she’d kept going by promising herself that the instant she was able to leave, she’d return as quickly as possible to her apartment at the Carlyle, take a long, lavishly perfumed bath, put on her oldest, softest, most familiar peignoir, have a great fruitwood fire—the first of the year—lit in the generous fireplace of her bedroom, and stretch out on the pile of pillows flung down on the carpet. She intended to put the past three days firmly behind her, sipping a distinctly alcoholic drink and looking straight into the flames until she was so dazzled by them that her mind would unclench and a pleasant emptiness would take over.
Yet, as soon as she entered the limo, Tessa Kent abruptly understood that it was still too soon to escape into that peaceful moment. Something was missing, a sight that would put an absolute punctuation to the process she had just completed, the witnessing of a three-day inventory of every last one of her jewels except the few she was wearing.
She needed to see her jewels actually leave the protection of the bank, Tessa realized. She needed to watch them being brought out onto the street and whisked away in three taxis and three ordinary cars by six couriers and a twelve-man armed security team that would carry tens of millions of dollars worth of jewels in the scruffy briefcases and sturdy shopping bags that had been selected to attract no attention.
If she didn’t see that final scene of the drama, she’d still be able to imagine that her jewels slept in the darkness of their velvet cases, piled high in their Vaults, ready for her to come and pick out those she would wear to an opening night at the theater or a black-tie party or dinner in a favorite restaurant. Something deep in Tessa’s psyche demanded that she recognize, with her own eyes, the fact that her jewels no longer belonged to her, that now they were gone. Gone for good.
Since her marriage, eighteen years earlier, Tessa Kent, the most internationally adored of American movie stars, had never been seen in public unadorned by magnificent jewels. Even in a bikini she wore ropes of seashells inset with gems. Jewels, on Tessa Kent, were never out of place, no matter the year or the hour or the style of the moment. They had become part of her persona, in private as well as in public, a signature as utterly specific to her as the sound of her voice, the shape of her mouth, the color of her eyes.
Suddenly Tessa saw the first of the couriers, carrying three shopping bags, appear at the entrance to the bank. On either side of him, seemingly busy in conversation, were two of the armed guards, clad in banker’s gray. One of the taxis that had been circling the block for hours pulled up beside Tessa’s limo, paused briefly as the three men got in, and then continued up Madison Avenue.
She hadn’t watched the process of transfer on any of the two previous days. She hadn’t felt any need to view it until today, when the last box had been entered into the inventory and sealed. Now, as she watched more couriers and guards walk out of the busy bank and disappear into their carefully choreographed transportation, she felt such a complex mixture of feelings that she couldn’t sort them out: loss, excitement, relief, anticipation, disbelief, and nostalgia, all jumbled together. Dominating every emotion was hope.
“You can take me back to the hotel, please, Ralph,” Tessa told the driver as soon as she realized that all of the couriers had left the bank. Traffic was heavy and the limo had barely covered two blocks when a heavy rain began to fall.
“Oh, perfect!” Tessa exclaimed. “Stop wherever you can.” As her driver knew, rain was her friend. With a big black umbrella skillfully deployed, she could roam the streets of New York without being recognized. This liberty was impossible in good weather; even wearing sunglasses and a scarf over her hair seemed, perversely, to attract the most attention of all from eager autograph seekers.
Today, after spending so many hours in an air-conditioned strong room, deep underground, Tessa yearned for a hard, private, cleansing walk more than for a bath or a drink.
Blessing the foul weather, she pulled a beret down until it reached her eyebrows, kicked off her shoes, and put on the boots that lay waiting in the back of the limo. She shrugged into the light raincoat, buttoned up the collar, and burrowed into it so that it hid her chin, and then picked up the umbrella that lay under her coat.
“Let me out at the corner, Ralph. I’ll walk all the way back.”
As soon as the limo came to a stop, Tessa hopped out, opened her umbrella, and strode rapidly across the street in the direction of Fifth Avenue. At any time of the year she loved walking up along Central Park, particularly now, as the lights of the city grew brighter against the darkening afternoon.
She found herself at Fifth Avenue and Forty-Seventh Street and she struck out uptown at a fast pace, breathing deeply and freely. It was wonderful to know that no one could possibly care about her in this humid confusion of burdened shoppers and people leaving their offices and seeking transportation home.
Enjoying herself in a way so frequently denied her, Tessa continued up Fifth Avenue past St. Patrick’s Cathedral and was three good blocks beyond it when she abruptly stopped, and changed direction. At the age of thirty-eight, she hadn’t been inside a church in years. She didn’t want to calculate how many it had been, but today … something about today … drew her back to the great bulk of the cathedral, drew her up the steps to the doors of the cathedral, drew her inside. She closed her umbrella. Old habit took over as she dipped her fingertips in the font of holy water, crossed herself, and genuflected before slipping into one of the pews at the back.
She would just sit here for a few seconds and then flee, back out to the delicious freedom of the busy, dripping streets, Tessa thought. Sit and bask in the vast singing hum of busy silence that had a color and a texture and a scent uniquely its own, so that if she had been set down here blindfolded she would have known instantly where she was.
Without willing it, Tessa found herself on her knees, her head bent. She was praying, she who no longer believed in prayer, praying as ardently as when she’d been a girl, but praying without words, praying purely for the sake of prayer.
The hope she had felt earlier in the afternoon returned, stronger than ever, illuminating her heart. She was safe here, Tessa thought dreamily, and the tears she had held back for many, many days splashed comfortingly down the backs of her hands.
1
Agnes Patricia Riley Horvath, whose daughter, Teresa, would become Tessa Kent, lay in bed at three in the morning. She had been awakened, as usual, by obsessive, angry thoughts about her husband, Sandor, and the way in which he dominated the upbringing of their only child, who now, in August 1967, had reached the age of twelve.
Her parents had opposed her marriage to Sandor Horvath in 1954 and they had been right, Agnes told herself. She was humiliated to the marrow of her bones as she relived her folly, lying next to Sandor in those private hours during which she was unable to keep her mind under control.
If it weren’t for Sandor’s stern prohibitions, Agnes reflected furiously, Teresa would be well launched on her career, a career about which there wasn’t the smallest question—a destiny Agnes knew to be as fixed as the rotation of the earth.
Her daughter had been born a star—yes, a star!—by virtue of her extraordinary beauty and the unmistakable dramatic talent she’d exhibited even as a small child. That wasn’t a mere mother’s pride talking, that was the opinion of everyone who’d ever seen her, Agnes told herself, trembling with frustration. Teresa should be making movies, or at the very least commercials—there was no limit to her future. But no, her husband, unable to move away from his rigid, old-fashioned, European ideas of what was correct and proper for a young girl, had steadily refused to let her take the girl to New York, where she could meet the influential people who would recognize how exceptional her daughter was.
Night after night, Agnes Horvath asked herself what had possessed her, when she was a mere eighteen and far too stupid to make choices, to insist on marrying a man who was essentially foreign to the tight-knit, devou
t, Irish Catholic world in which she had her enviable place as the youngest of the five sparkling, black-haired, blue-eyed Riley daughters. Why had she set her heart on a refugee from Communist Hungary, a music professor of thirty-five?
Each time Agnes asked herself this question, she couldn’t stop herself from treating it as if it were a newly discovered problem that might contain some newly meaningful answer. She’d recapitulate the past as seriously as if she might still uncover some forgotten fact that would suddenly change the present.
Sandor had been an amazingly handsome man, a charming and romantic stranger, who had swept the provincial fool she had been off her feet and out of what small, unsophisticated wits she had possessed. The distinguished man who spoke English with more elegance and precision than any American boy had been irresistible to her barely formed mind and impressionable heart. Savagely Agnes reminded herself that she’d also been suffering from a bad case of seeing Gone with the Wind too many times. Then, and still today, at forty-eight, Sandor strongly resembled Leslie Howard, but she’d been too immature to realize how quickly his fine-boned, intellectual, sensitive beauty would become infuriating when she weighed them against the rules and regulations he imposed on her.
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