Cloud Waltzer

by Tory Cates

  The maelstrom of emotion that she’d bottled up within herself burst loose, energizing her fingers as they tapped rapidly over the lettered keys. She took the heat and fury of her feelings for Archer and redirected them into cooler, depersonalized channels. She wasn’t writing a valentine or a poison pen letter to Archer Hanson. She was filtering the rare personal glimpses she’d gotten of a remarkable man into a story that delivered what Enterprise readers would want to know about that man and the business acumen that had propelled him to the top.

  Inevitably, as she worked a good quote or a particularly telling anecdote into the fiber of the story, the words she was recording would trigger a memory of a far different nature. Time and time again, Meredith caught herself staring off into space as she was snared by the compelling image of his proud golden head burning like a miniature sun beneath the furling banner of the prancing unicorn; rising over her shoulder as they both stared into the vanity mirror; and sinking ever lower, warming her with its radiant carnal energy until it came to rest between her thighs.

  And time and time again Meredith would shepherd her wandering thoughts back to the course they had to take. She accepted these mental rebellions and didn’t squelch them too ruthlessly. She had resigned herself to the fact that Archer Hanson would be in her thoughts for the rest of her life. She imagined she would think of him with her dying breath. The peace that had overtaken her on her drive out to Antonito as she passed the imperishable Acoma Pueblo had settled in, bringing with it a deep gratitude that she had been permitted to know the kind of love she and Archer had shared. Though it couldn’t banish her grief at the end of that love, at her own inability to sustain such a transforming emotion, the peace she had found did neutralize some of her sadness.

  She worked late into the night, making herself stop to feed Thor and to eat herself. She no longer had the time in her life to make such a fetish out of what should be a simple, straightforward process. When she was hungry, she ate, and that was that. She fell into bed exhausted and pleased with what she had produced so far.

  The next morning she was back at the keyboard. Not even taking the time to change, she worked in the embroidered cotton Mexican dress that served as her nightgown. She was excited. As with all the pieces she’d ever worked on that had been successful, this one seemed to be writing itself. That was always a sign that she had chosen the right track.

  She opened with the crash landing of the solar balloon, an incident that would grab readers from word one and also reveal to them a good bit about the man who had handled the dangerous situation so coolly. From that point, she’d segued into Archer’s past, at least those parts of it that Nelson hadn’t sworn her to secrecy about.

  Untangling the threads that bound Archer’s empire was where her expertise was tested. She unknotted the strands, detailing how he’d borrowed on one investment to finance another until he had a dozen different ventures whirling like plates on sticks. If he had ever stopped to rest at that point in his career, the banks would have put an abrupt halt to his balancing act and the whole thing would have come crashing down around his ears. As Meredith reconstructed his rise, she marveled not only at his energy but his instincts. He’d made a few wrong moves, a few bad investments, but not many. He’d gotten in on the ground floor of a number of energy and development trends, buying into ventures just before they became popular. She noted that this alone was a good sign for solar energy.

  Then came the rough part, delving into Archer Hanson, the man. She had to weed her way through the barrage of impressions and anecdotes that bombarded her. She discarded the ones that were too intimate, the ones that would betray the depths of her relationship with Archer. Though shaping the story exhausted her, she was reasonably satisfied with the portrait of Archer that was emerging. She only hoped that she could bring him to life as vividly on paper as he was in the flesh.

  Two days later she had a rough draft of nearly forty pages. What she had was basically good, but it was flabby. She remembered a famous bit of advice to writers that when they came upon anything they’d written that they found especially clever to cut it out, so she paid close attention to her own treasured bits. She smoothed over the transitions from Archer’s present to his past, blending the two together into a seamless whole. She paraphrased several quotes, shortening them and integrating them more carefully into the piece. She questioned the portions that dealt with him as a man, worrying if they were too personal, too revealing. In the end, though, she relied on the journalistic instinct that told her they were good and shouldn’t be altered.

  It was nearly three in the morning when she checked the time. She staggered into bed, asleep before Thor had even settled himself on top of the covers. She was up a few hours later to make a few final tweaks. She was going to hand in a flawless manuscript to Charles Wendler. After trimming off the fat, she was left with twenty-five pages and six thousand words. Every single one of them had been polished until it gleamed. When she was completely satisfied, she attached the file to an email and hit Send.

  It was done. After the initial euphoria wore off, Meredith felt oddly dejected. But before she could sink too far into her post-work depression, she hurried herself out of her apartment. A movie seemed like a good idea. She chose one at random. A love story. Not an especially good one. That didn’t stop Meredith, though, from succumbing to an urge that hadn’t overtaken her in a public place since her first day at summer camp twenty years earlier—she bawled her eyes out. She was shaken to her core by the grief she had suppressed in order to produce the profile on time. Now that she’d finished the assignment, she could afford the catharsis of tears, the luxury of abandoning herself to the turmoil of emotions still churning within her.

  As she stepped into the darkness that had fallen on the city while she’d been lost in her cinematic release, she felt oddly cleansed, scoured of the debilitating sorrow and left with only the pure residue of her loss, the memory that she had, at least for a little while, been loved. Like Archer, who had suffered more than she could have ever guessed and finally found peace in helping the people who had offered him solace, she would cherish that immutable memory and use it to create a life worth living.

  She filled the next few days with an assortment of projects, working out a few columns for the Journal and sending off several queries to other editors she’d worked with. In the middle of one such letter, Charles Wendler called. Suddenly, she felt like she was back in high school waiting to find out if her name would appear on the list of those chosen to be in the senior play. She hadn’t been chosen then and for one moment she was afraid of feeling rejected again. In two words Wendler dispelled that fear.

  “Great story,” he announced.

  “Wha . . . ? Oh, you liked it?” Meredith stammered.

  “Liked it? I loved it. You did a superb job. Hanson practically leaps off the page, you made him so real, so vital. I have to confess to you, I didn’t think you could do it. I tossed that assignment your way because three other reporters had failed to get the story.”

  “And because you wanted to do a favor for my father,” Meredith added with no rancor. She just wanted Wendler to know that she hadn’t been entirely ignorant of his motives.

  “I won’t deny that I’d prefer to be in your father’s good graces rather than out, but I never would have let you touch the story if I hadn’t seen your clips and thought they were good. Anyway, what’s it matter? You delivered the goods. I love the solar ballooning angle. It’ll make great art. The art director has already contacted a photographer there in Albuquerque to shoot some pictures of Hanson in his balloon. And we can use some of the TV footage of the crash to make stills. It will be a terrific spread. But that’s not why I’m calling, or not the main reason anyway. I’d like to turn you loose on another subject we’ve been trying to nail down now for some time. Preston Denvers.”

  Meredith had heard the name bandied about in financial circles since she’d arrived in New Mexico. He was a behind-the-scenes man who ha
d been making important things happen throughout the Southwest for the past half century. “Want to give him a shot?” Wendler asked.

  Meredith readily agreed.

  Her first thought after she’d hung up was, Archer isn’t going to believe this. She couldn’t wait to tell him, to run to him with the news of her assignment and Wendler’s reaction to her story like a kid with gold stars on her finger painting. But no sooner had the thought crossed her mind than reality caught up with her and tripped her enthusiasm. Of course she couldn’t tell Archer. But the headlong thoughts made her aware of how much of her drive had been generated by her subconscious desire to win Archer’s approval.

  She tried to submerge that impulse as much as she could in the next few weeks as she plunged into the new subject. Winning Preston Denver’s approval required her full concentration as well as a weeklong campaign of persuasion and cajolery. When Denvers finally capitulated, Meredith could barely contain herself. Again her urge to call Archer and share the good news was so strong that she could barely contain it. But fortified by the memory of his final directive to her not to call, she fought off the impulse. The next few weeks were gobbled up with research as she immersed herself in the life and times of Preston Denvers.

  She worried that this effort might not turn out as well as her first profile, mainly because she wasn’t nearly as involved in the subject. But midway through her research she realized that her involvement with Archer had not helped her to write the profile, it had hindered her. She’d had to sort out her feelings every inch of the way with Archer; with Denvers there was no question that she was all business and that everything she collected on him or observed about him could be used in print.

  Her straightforward approach soon won Denvers over and he allowed her access that had been denied to every other writer who’d attempted to tell his story. Among other things, he was a fancier of Arabian horses. One weekend he had Meredith flown up in his private jet to his horse farm outside Scottsdale, Arizona.

  Meredith soaked up the atmosphere like a sponge. Though she’d grown up surrounded with wealth, the southwestern twists and touches all struck her with the freshness of things new and novel and she scrupulously recorded them, knowing that they were the essential spices that would ultimately give her piece its flavor.

  Her every step seemed sure and direct as she switched from research to writing. With each paragraph, she gained confidence that her initial effort had not been a flash in the pan, that maybe, just maybe, she could carve out a career for herself in the field she’d chosen.

  On a gray, gusty day at the end of November, Meredith finished the lengthy profile. As soon as she sent it off, she felt the familiar letdown of a project completed and the empty space it left behind. The deflation of her mood left her bogged down in a mire of regret.

  She started home, but couldn’t face the apartment that harbored so many memories of both the saddest and most exquisite moments of her life. She let the scything wind blow her where it willed. She drove aimlessly, not even realizing that she’d headed for the North Valley until she passed the pasture enclosed by a fence of railroad ties. The shaggy buffalo were huddled together, their backs to the chill wind.

  She was on the road to Archer’s house and had no will to resist the urge to continue. The barren limbs of the massive cottonwoods that lined the bank of the Rio Grande shivered in the cold. As evening approached, the little adobe ranches huddled in the shadow of the Sandias looked like charcoal drawings. Washed away by the thin, watery light of winter were the vivid colors that had lured Meredith from Chicago and given her the courage to start a new life. She yearned for their brightness, their warmth.

  Archer’s house appeared in the deepening dusk. The sight of it set far back from the road and silhouetted against an evening sky hit her with an impact she was unprepared for. So fierce was her yearning to see, to be with Archer just one more time, that she had to physically resist her desire to turn the wheel up the drive. But resist she did. She’d happily never see him again rather than drag herself to him in the condition she was in now, a tattered bit of humanity who could only function with him propping up her damaged psyche.

  She gunned the idling motor and drove straight and fast. She’d take the long way home, looping around the valley to avoid passing Archer’s house again. She didn’t know if she’d have the strength to make the same decision a second time around.

  Chapter 12

  Thanksgiving and Christmas blurred together that year, smudged at the edges by the work that poured in from Charlie Wendler. He was as impressed by Meredith’s profile of Preston Denvers as he had been by her portrait of Archer. So impressed, in fact, that he called the morning of New Year’s Eve with a bit of advice.

  “Watch the newsstands,” Wendler instructed her.

  “I always do,” Meredith countered. “Particularly around the time of the month Enterprise comes out. And even more particularly when my first article is due to appear.”

  “Well, be even more vigilant this month,” the editor advised her enigmatically. “I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised. I would have express mailed some advance copies to you, but I think it has more impact when a writer discovers her work on the newsstands along with the rest of the world. Listen, kid, I have to run. I’ve got the president of Chase Manhattan on the other line and I don’t think it would be terribly clever to keep him waiting for very long.”

  “Very astute,” Meredith kidded, pleased with the relationship that had developed between them. As she hung up she wondered what the surprise was that Charlie had mentioned. Maybe he had mentioned her story on the cover. Unable to fight off her curiosity, she headed for the drugstore across the street from the University of New Mexico campus. It had the best stock of magazines in town. There was a slim chance that they might have already received their copies of Enterprise.

  In the car Meredith shrugged off her jacket. A warm spell had temporarily chased away winter. It looked as if Albuquerqueans would be welcoming the New Year wearing T-shirts. Meredith figured she’d probably see it in dressed in her old flannel nightgown. She’d been invited to a couple of parties around town. But since both parties would fête the business community, there was too great a danger that she would run into Archer. She was still not ready for that encounter.

  Inside the drugstore, she headed straight for the business section in the separate room devoted exclusively to magazines. It appeared to be deserted. Her heart sank as she saw last month’s issue of Enterprise sitting in the rack. Too bad; she could have used a pleasant surprise to help pass a lonely New Year’s Eve. Maybe if Phil didn’t already have plans, she’d invite him over for a late supper and fix something elegant and extravagant.

  “You looking for the new issue?”

  Meredith spun around. As she did a bald head fringed by wisps of graying hair poked up over the countertop. The clerk disappeared again, then materialized on the other side of the counter, dragging a box behind him.

  “We just got the latest Enterprises in this morning, but I didn’t think anyone would be coming in for them until after New Year’s so I didn’t bother to unpack.” He slid the box over to the aisle where Meredith stood, took a knife out of his jeans pockets, and sliced the thick strip of tape across the box’s top. The box flaps fell open and there, splashed across the cover, was Archer’s Viking grin. Once Meredith recovered from the shock of seeing him in full color, she was able to absorb the rest of the cover. It showed him waving from the basket of Cloud Waltzer. In bold black letters across the wicker ran the title, “Archer Hanson, New Mexico’s BALLOON TYCOON.”

  “We’ll sell a bunch of these,” the clerk said, arranging a handful in the rack. He quickly cleared out several adjoining racks. The combined effect of staring at half a dozen Archers and the surprise of seeing her story featured on the cover practically unhinged Meredith. She grabbed several copies of the magazine and headed for the door.

  “Hey, I’ll take care of you up here,” the clerk said, m
oving back to the counter. Meredith blushed crimson. It looked as if she’d planned to make a hasty exit without paying for the magazines.

  Back at her apartment she’d barely had time to begin glorying in her triumph when the phone rang. She answered, her mind still on the cover. Halfway to her ear, her hand froze. Whether it was intuition or the barely perceived sound of breathing, she didn’t know. All Meredith was sure of was that Archer Hanson was on the other end of the line.

  When she finally said, “Hello,” her voice was wobbly and little-girl high when she answered.

  “Meredith, that you?”

  Archer’s voice was the sound of memories and dreams come to life. It reverberated in Meredith’s head, swirling a haze over her thoughts and tying her tongue.

  “Yes,” she finally choked out.

  “You didn’t sound like yourself for a moment. I have a copy of the magazine.”

  Meredith’s heart, which had barely begun beating again, froze once more. She waited for Archer to continue, to deliver his assessment of her work. In that instant, she knew that she could win the Pulitzer for her article and it wouldn’t matter as much as what Archer had to say about it.

  “And?” she prompted him when the silence had grown longer than she could bear.

  “And there are a number of inaccuracies and misrepresentations of fact that I’d like to talk with you about.”

  The bottom fell out of her stomach. At the worst, she’d been expecting some mildly qualified praise, but praise nonetheless. “Misrepresentations of fact,” she echoed weakly, her mind whirling to discover what he could be referring to. “What do you mean?”

  “I’d rather talk to you about it here, at my office, if you don’t mind.”

  Archer’s formal remoteness sent a chill scurrying along Meredith’s spine. It was the guarded tone people adopt when they are acting under an attorney’s directions. It silenced the questions crowding in on Meredith.