But three days after the picture came out, the wire services got a call. It was from a man in New York, he ran a photo lab, and Marcus Anders had burned him for a lot of money. Anders had made half a million bucks thanks to him, and he'd put it all up his nose and cheated the man who was calling. And besides, the lab man knew there was something rotten about what Anders was doing. At first, it had seemed all right, but then the photographs had just kept on coming. They had beaten her to death, and then the poor guy quit. It wasn't right, for a lot of reasons. So he blew the whistle.
His name was Jose Cervantes, and he was the best trick man in New York, probably in the business. He did beautiful retouching for respectable photographers, and some funny stuff when he was paid enough by guys like Marcus Anders. He could take Margaret Thatcher's head and put her on Arnold Schwarzenegger's body. All he needed was one single tiny seam, and you had it. Presto! Magic! All he'd needed for Grace's photos, he explained, was the tiny black ribbon he'd added at her neck and he could join her head to any body. He had chosen some really luscious ones, in some fairly exotic positions, but at first Marcus had told him it was for fun. It was only when he'd seen them printed in Thrill that he really knew what the photographer was doing. He could have come forward then, but he didn't want to get involved. He could have been charged with fraud, but there was nothing illegal about tricking photographs. It was done constantly for ads, for jokes, for greeting cards, for layouts. It was only when you did what Marcus had done that it became illegal. Therein lay the malicious intent, the actual malice everyone looked for and never found. But they had it this time.
Marcus Anders had set out to ruin her. He had had nothing to do with exposing her prison record, he hadn't even known about it, and he had forgotten his pictures of her completely. But once he saw the pieces on her in Thrill, about killing her father and going to jail, he unearthed his old pictures of her and set Jose working on them. Jose hadn't even recognized her till he read the first article in Thrill, and realized what Marcus was doing. But Marcus had all his work by then. And they were entirely faked. The original photographs were as she had remembered them, in Marcus's white shirt, many of them even in blue jeans. What had worked so well for their purposes was the expression on her face, as she lay back against the fur, drugged and only semiconscious. It made her look as though she were having sex at the time they were taken.
The story made a lot of news, and Thrill was wide-open for a major lawsuit. Mr. Goldsmith, the attorney, was delighted, and charges of fraud and malicious mischief were brought against Marcus, but he had disappeared by then, and word was he'd gone to Europe.
Marcus and Thrill had done it for fun, and for profit, and just to prove they could, each one not really caring, not taking responsibility, the artist, the photographer, the forger, the editor, and in the end, the Mac-kenzies were the victims.
But they all looked whole in body and soul again, as they packed their house in Washington, and went to spend Christmas in Connecticut. And then they went back to close the house on R Street. It had sold immediately to a brand-new congressman from Alabama.
“Will you miss Washington?” Grace asked, as they lay in bed on their last night in the house in Georgetown. He wasn't sure if she was sorry to leave or not. In some ways, she wasn't. In others she would miss it. She worried that Charles would always feel that he had left unfinished business. But he said he wouldn't. He had accomplished a lot in Congress in six years, and learned innumerable important lessons. The most important one he'd learned was that his family meant a lot more to him than his job. He knew he had made the right decision. They'd been through enough pain to last a lifetime. It had made the children stronger too, and brought them all closer together.
He had had other offers too, from corporations in the private sector, an important foundation or two, and of course they wanted him back at the law firm, but he hadn't made up his mind yet. And they were going to do exactly what he'd said. They were going to spend six or eight months in Europe. They were going to Switzerland, France, and England. He had already made arrangements with two schools while they were there, in Geneva and Paris. And Kisses was going to stay with friends in Greenwich until they came home for the summer. He'd have made his mind up by then about their future. And maybe, if she was up to it, Grace might have another baby. And if not, they were happy as they were. For Charles, all the doors were open.
The next day Grace was already in the car with the kids when the phone rang. Charles was making a last check of the house to make sure they hadn't left anything behind, but he had only found Matt's football, and a pair of old sneakers under the back porch, otherwise everything was gone. The house was empty.
The call was from the Department of State, from a man Charles knew only vaguely. Charles knew he was close to the President, but he had had few dealings with him, and he knew mainly that he was a good friend of Roger Marshall's.
“The President would like to see you sometime today, if you have time,” he said, and Charles smiled and shook his head. It never failed. Maybe he just wanted to say goodbye and thank him for a job well done, but it seemed less than likely.
“We were just about to drive to Connecticut. We're out of here. The kids are already in the car.”
“Would you all like to come over for a few minutes? I'm sure we could find something for them to do. He has fifteen minutes at ten forty-five, if that suits you.” Charles wanted to say “Why?” but he knew that wasn't done, and he didn't want to slam any doors behind him, surely not the one to the Oval Office.
“I suppose we could do that, if you can stand three noisy kids and a dog.”
“I've got five,” he laughed, “and a pig my wife bought me for Christmas.”
“We'll be right over.”
The kids were vastly impressed that they were stopping off at the White House to say goodbye.
“I'll bet he doesn't do that for everyone,” Matt said proudly, wishing he could tell someone.
“What's that all about?” Grace asked, as he drove the station wagon to Pennsylvania Avenue.
Theirs was the least distinguished vehicle to drive up to the White House in quite a while, he was sure, and he had told Grace honestly that he had absolutely no idea what they wanted.
“They want you to run for president in four years,” she grinned at him. “Tell him you don't have time.”
“Yeah. Sure.” He laughed at her as he left them in the car, and an aide came to invite them inside. They were going to give the kids a mini-tour, and a young Marine volunteered to walk Kisses. There was a nice friendly atmosphere that was typical of the current administration. They liked kids and dogs and people. And Charles.
In the Oval Office, the President told Charles that he was sorry he had withdrawn from the Senate race, but he understood it. There were times when one had to make decisions for one's own life, and not the country. And Charles told him that he appreciated the support, but would miss Washington, and hoped they'd meet again.
“I was hoping that too.” The President smiled at him, and asked him what his plans were, and Charles told him. They were leaving for Switzerland that week, for two weeks of skiing.
“How do you feel about France?” the President inquired conversationally, and Charles explained that they were going to Normandy and Brittany, and they had made arrangements to put the kids in school in Paris. “When do you plan to arrive?” He was looking pensive.
“By February or March probably. We're going to stay till school lets out in June. Then travel around England for a month, and come home. I figure we'll be ready by then, and I'd better go back to work one of these days.”
“How about in April?”
“Sir?” Charles didn't quite understand and the President smiled.
“I was asking how you felt about going back to work in April.”
“I'll still be in Paris then,” he said discreetly. He had no intention of coming back to Washington before a year, or even two, and not back to the States till tha
t summer.
“That's not a problem,” the President continued. “The current ambassador to France would like to come home by April to retire. He hasn't been well this year. How would you feel about a post as ambassador to France for two or three years? And then we can talk about the next election. We'll need some good men in four years, Charles. I'd like to see you among them.”
“Ambassador to France?” He looked blank. He couldn't even imagine it, but it sounded like the chance of a lifetime. “May I discuss this with my wife?”
“Of course.”
“I'll call you, sir.”
“Take your time. It's a good post, Charles. I think you'd like it.”
“I think we all would.” Charles was bowled over. And the back door to Washington was open for him whenever he wanted.
He promised to let the President know in a few days. The two men shook hands, and Charles went downstairs looking excited. Grace could see that something had happened upstairs, and she was dying to know what it was. It took them forever to get the kids and the dog back into the car, and finally they did and everyone asked at Once what the President had said to him.
“Not much,” he teased them all and strung it out, as they drove away from the White House. “The usual stuff, you know, so long, have a great trip, don't forget to write.”
“Dad!” Abby complained, and Grace gave him a friendly shove.
“Are you going to tell us?”
“Maybe. What am I bid?”
“I'm going to push you out of the car, if you don't tell us soon!” she threatened.
“You'd better listen to her, Dad,” Matt warned, and the dog started to bark furiously as though she wanted to know too.
“Okay, okay. He said we're the worst-behaved people he's ever met and he doesn't want us back here.” He grinned and they all shouted at him in unison and told him he wasn't funny. “So bad, in fact, that he thinks we should stay in Europe.” In truth it had been hard enough to say goodbye to their friends in Washington after six years, but they were excited about their adventure abroad and Andrew could hardly wait to see his friend in Paris.
Charles was looking at Grace then, with a curious glance. “He offered me the ambassadorship to Paris,” he told her quietly as the kids continued to make a ruckus behind them.
“He did?” She looked stunned. “Now?”
“In April.”
“What did you say?”
“I said I had to ask you, all of you, and he said to let him know. What do you think?” He was looking at her as he drove through Washington, and headed north to Greenwich.
“I think we're the luckiest people alive,” she said, and meant it. They had come out nearly unscathed from the fires of hell, and they were still together. “You know what else I think?” she asked, leaning close to him as she whispered.
“What?”
She said it so the kids wouldn't hear. “I think I'm pregnant.” He looked at her with a grin, and answered back in a whisper just loud enough to be heard despite the din in the backseat.
“I'm going to be eighty-two when this one graduates from college, maybe I should stop counting. I suppose we'll have to name him François.”
“Françoise,” she corrected, and he laughed.
“Twins. Does that mean we're going?” he asked politely.
“Sounds like it, doesn't it?” The kids in the backseat were singing French songs at the top of their lungs and Andy was beaming.
“Do you mind having a baby over there?” he asked her quietly again. It worried him a little.
“Nope,” she grinned. “I can't think of anyplace I'd rather be than Paris.”
“Does that mean yes?”
She nodded. “I think so.”
“He said he'd like me back here in two or three years to talk about the next elections. But I don't know, I'm not sure I'd ever want to go through all this again.”
“Maybe we wouldn't next time. Maybe they wore themselves out.”
“After the stunt that jerk pulled with his photographs, we may end up owning Thrill by then,” he smiled ruefully. Goldsmith was going to be busy.
“We could burn it to the ground. What a nice idea.” She smiled evilly.
“I'd love to.” He smiled and leaned over and kissed her. In some ways, listening to their children laugh and sing in the backseat, and looking at her, made it seem as though the nightmare of the past months had never happened.
“Au revoir, Washington!” the kids shouted as they drove across the Potomac.
Charles looked at the place where so many dreams were born, and so many died, and shrugged his shoulders. “See ya.” Grace moved closer to him, and smiled as she looked out the window.
WATCH FOR THE NEW NOVEL
FROM
DANIELLE STEEL
On Sale in Hardcover
June 27, 2006
COMING OUT
Olympia Crawford Rubinstein has a way of managing her thriving family with grace and humor. With twin daughters finishing high school, a son at Dartmouth, and a kindergartener from her second marriage, there seems to be nothing Olympia can't handle … until one sunny day in May, when she opens an invitation for her daughters to attend the most exclusive coming out ball in New York—and chaos erupts all around her. …
From a son's crisis to a daughter's heartbreak, from a case of the chickenpox to a political debate raging in her household, Olympia is on the verge of surrender… until a series of startling choices and changes of heart, family and friends turn a night of calamity into an evening of magic. As old wounds are healed, barriers are shattered and new traditions are born, and a debutante ball becomes a catalyst for change, revelation, acceptance, and love.
Please turn the page for a special advance preview.
COMING OUT
on sale June 27, 2006
Chapter 1
Olympia Crawford Rubinstein was whizzing around her kitchen on a sunny May morning, in the brownstone she shared with her family on Jane Street in New York, near the old meat-packing district of the West Village. It had long since become a fashionable neighborhood of mostly modern apartment buildings with doormen, and old renovated brownstones. Olympia was fixing lunch for her five-year-old son, Max. The school bus was due to drop him off in a few minutes. He was in kindergarten at Dalton, and Friday was a half day for him. She always took Fridays off to spend them with him. Although Olympia had three older children from her first marriage, Max was Olympia and Harry's only child.
Olympia and Harry had restored the house six years before, when she was pregnant with Max. Before that, they had lived in her Park Avenue apartment, which she had previously shared with her three children after her divorce. And then Harry joined them. She had met Harry Rubinstein a year after her divorce. And now, she and Harry had been married for thirteen years. They had waited eight years to have Max, and his parents and siblings adored him. He was a loving, funny, happy child.
Olympia was a partner in a booming law practice, specializing in civil rights issues and class action lawsuits. Her favorite cases, and what she specialized in, were those that involved discrimination against or some form of abuse of children. She had made a name for herself in her field. She had gone to law school after her divorce, fifteen years before, and married Harry two years later. He had been one of her law professors at Columbia Law School, and was now a judge on the federal court of appeals. He had recently been considered for a seat on the Supreme Court. In the end, they hadn't appointed him, but he'd come close, and she and Harry both hoped that the next time a vacancy came up, he would get it.
She and Harry shared all the same beliefs, values, and passions—even though they came from very different backgrounds. He came from an Orthodox Jewish home, and both his parents had been Holocaust survivors as children. His mother had gone to Dachau from Munich at ten, and lost her entire family. His father had been one of the few survivors of Auschwitz, and they met in Israel later. They had married as teenagers, moved to London, and from there
to the States. Both had lost their entire families, and their only son had become the focus of all their energies, dreams, and hopes. They had worked like slaves all their lives to give him an education, his father as a tailor and his mother as a seamstress, working in the sweatshops of the Lower East Side, and eventually on Seventh Avenue in what was later referred to as the garment district. His father had died just after Harry and Olympia married. Harry's greatest regret was that his father hadn't known Max. Harry's mother, Frieda, was a strong, intelligent, loving woman of seventy-six, who thought her son was a genius, and her grandson a prodigy.
Olympia had converted from her staunch Episcopalian background to Judaism when she married Harry. They attended a Reform synagogue, and Olympia said the prayers for Shabbat every Friday night, and lit the candles, which never failed to touch Harry. There was no doubt in Harry's mind, or even his mother's, that Olympia was a fantastic woman, a great mother to all her children, a terrific attorney, and a wonderful wife. Like Olympia, Harry had been married before, but he had no other children. Olympia was turning forty-five in July, and Harry was fifty-three. They were well matched in all ways, though their backgrounds couldn't have been more different. Even physically, they were an interesting and complementary combination. Her hair was blond, her eyes were blue; he was dark, with dark brown eyes; she was tiny; he was a huge teddy bear of a man, with a quick smile and an easygoing disposition. Olympia was shy and serious, though prone to easy laughter, especially when it was provoked by Harry or her children. She was a remarkably dutiful and loving daughter-in-law to Harry's mother, Frieda.
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