“Mama used to tell me I would grow up to marry a princess.”
“You’ve been so busy guarding your heart against another blow, you wouldn’t know your princess if she bit you on the ass. Unless …” His voice rose at the end the way Cliff’s did when he said “aha.”
“All right. I found her … Senator Chatsworth’s daughter. I fell in love with her, and it went south.”
“How?”
Lyle told him. He listened, nodding and interjecting a comment from time to time.
Finally, when Lyle rested his case, Pop looked at him with a keen expression. “What are you doing sitting on my porch? Go get her.”
“How? If I asked her to marry me, she would just think I was after her father’s money.”
“So what? I’ve read about those Hollywood types in ‘People.’ They have prenuptial agreements to take care of that claptrap.”
Lyle drew a painful breath. “Just thinking about her …” The ache in his chest had become a constant companion. “I don’t know if I can go through this kind of hurt again … if I dare get my hopes up.” He gestured toward his father. “How can you sit there and give advice when you’ve never moved on in all these years?”
Pop held his gaze. “A few months ago, I probably would have still been too pigheaded. But I’ve been seeing someone. A widow lady from the church I started going to.”
Lyle straightened in his chair. Instant tears sprang to his eyes. “Mama’s never coming back.”
“No, son. She isn’t. The pastor … and Martha … have helped me understand that. Some mysteries aren’t meant to be solved.”
Wiping his eyes with his hands, Lyle felt a wave of relief along with the pain of letting go. “I … hope it works for you with Martha.”
“If it doesn’t, at least it got the house painted.”
Both men chuckled, Lyle through tears. Then they were on their feet, sharing the first hug they’d had in many years.
“You go get Sylvia,” Pop ordered. “Bring her back here and you can both meet Martha.”
“I’ll try,” Lyle said.
He didn’t think it would be that easy.
Sylvia sat on the rear terrace in Sausalito overlooking Richardson Bay and Angel Island. The autumn splendor reminded her painfully of her Sunday outing with Lyle.
Her father occupied a patio chair alongside, while Laura saw to making something cold to drink. That Lawrence Chatsworth hadn’t gone to take care of some political business on a weekday surprised Sylvia.
“Daddy,” she said. “I know you need to get back to Washington.”
“I’ve zipped over twice for an important vote in the past month, but you’re right.”
They sat in silence for a moment.
“Yesterday, you told those reporters you weren’t going to be dancing till dawn anymore. What are your plans?” Something in his tone suggested he was fishing about Lyle.
Laura came out with a tray and three sweating glasses of icy lemonade.
Sylvia looked up at her. “I’ve been thinking of getting involved with the battered women’s shelter. Doing something useful for a change.”
“Ah’d welcome the help.” Laura set the tray on a glass-topped table and straightened the Southern-style mint-garnish in one.
“Mom, how have you stood it all these years in California?”
Laura made eye contact with her husband. “I’ve been with the right man.”
Getting up from her chair, Sylvia faced both her parents. “Hold the presses. I never thought you were that close.”
“We’ve had our bad moments,” Lawrence said. “And your mother never believed in public displays of affection.”
“Not even in front of your child?” Sylvia’s voice rose.
Laura smiled ruefully. “I’m afraid I got that from my mother, and my father, the Southern gentleman. I guess it was wrong.” She went to Lawrence where he sat, put her hands on his shoulders from behind, and bent to kiss the top of his ear lightly.
Lawrence reached up and put his hand on top of hers and looked at Sylvia. “I hate to have to say it, because there was nothing good about your running away, but when we feared our only child might be gone to us, it drew us back together.”
Seeing them like this, the way they had accepted her return with open arms, reminded her she had failed to do her part. “Yesterday, when I got home and you both welcomed me, I overlooked the most important thing. I … owe you both an apology.”
“Accepted,” said Lawrence.
Laura, her face tight with emotion, nodded.
“I should have understood years ago, with a father and mother in public service, which you’ve been even when you were a developer running the Planning Commission, and Mom was always doing something for the community … I should have known you had enough love for one daughter, as well.”
Her father chuckled. “You know, thinking back, it’s amazing how smart my parents suddenly became when I reached my mid-twenties.”
Laura came to Sylvia and put her arms around her.
A silent moment passed.
Then Lawrence cleared his throat. “There is still the matter of Lyle Thomas.”
Pain stabbed Sylvia’s chest. “Please,” she said, “let it be.”
She glanced at her mother, expecting her expression to harden at the mere mention of “white trash” Lyle.
Laura simply watched her husband, making Sylvia wonder if she were about to hear a planned presentation.
Lawrence fixed Sylvia with his most intent look. “The man’s in love with you. And you with him.”
She didn’t bother to deny it. “That doesn’t matter. He didn’t tell me—”
“It’s the only thing that matters.” Lawrence got to his feet and started to pace the way he did onstage sometimes. “Here’s what happened. I tried to hire Lyle, got him a leave of absence to take time looking for you. When I presented the first check that was to replace his salary, he refused. That put him in the hole financially from the word go. He went up poking around Andre Valetti and happened to run into you.”
“Is that true?”
“I believe it to be. I suddenly stopped hearing from him. He didn’t answer his cell phone. If he wanted money, all he had to do was call.”
“You said you offered him a half-million-dollar reward.”
“True. So if the man’s motivation was solely money, he wouldn’t have helped you hide.”
Laura spoke up. “Now tell her, Larry, why you offered him that.”
He smiled a little sheepishly. “I saw you kissing him on TV. I knew the man had a sterling character, fine prospects, good looks, everything a father-in-law could want. Except that Laura didn’t approve of his balance sheet.”
Realization dawned on Sylvia. “You thought you’d bankroll him so Mom wouldn’t object.”
“Foolish of me. I should have known her objection was to his upbringing and not his present situation.”
Sylvia looked a question at her mother.
Laura sighed. “Ah was allowing prejudice to overrule common sense. When Lyle came to the house he was a charming young man, clearly in deep over you. What matters is what he’s like today.”
How dare they… “So what you’re both doing is matchmaking again. The way you did with Rory Campbell.”
Lawrence smiled. “There’s one major difference. This time, you chose the man. And he chose you.”
“I was seeing Rory.”
“Ah saw lots of sparks between you two,” Laura said. Sylvia recalled throwing the glass of red wine. “But nothing deep.”
“Anybody who saw you and Lyle kiss knew decisions were being made on a level beyond the physical,” her father finished. “When you disappeared, he looked like he’d been poleaxed.”
Sylvia started to protest again, but closed her mouth. Thinking of Lyle waiting and wondering if she were dead, the way she had when he dove into the springs, told her everything she needed to know.
Sylvia went to her room and closed
the door.
The telephone sat on the table by the bed. The clock radio said it was coming up on four p.m. Lyle wasn’t working, so perhaps he’d be home, doing résumé work.
Sitting on the bed, she cleared her throat a couple of times. Tried to think with her pulse racing. What to say when he answered?
She’d figure that out as she went along.
Sylvia lifted the cordless unit. And dialed from memory the number she’d gotten from directory assistance at the Indian grocery.
Lyle’s phone rang. It seemed as though time stood still between rings. If he answered, would he hang up on her? A man as proud as Lyle might turn stubborn … as stubborn as she’d been about her parents when she disappeared, and had been about Lyle until Daddy said love was the only thing that mattered.
Finally, Lyle’s answering machine came on. Yet, she waited, hoping he might pick up as he had the night she fled from Andre’s.
The message ended with the tone. Should she leave a message?
Panicked, she clicked off the phone and slammed it into the charging unit.
“Mom,” she said to Laura, who was in the master bedroom changing out her closet from summer to winter.
“Did you get him on the phone, dear?”
“He doesn’t answer. Listen, would you and Daddy be terribly upset if I went over to my place in town? Lyle’s place isn’t far and that way …”
Laura set down a cashmere sweater trimmed with pearls. “Of course, you should go. The sooner you get this settled, the better. For all of us.”
“There’s something else. I know I said I wouldn’t frequent places like Ice anymore, but I think Lyle and his friends might be Friday night regulars. So if I can’t get him on the phone, I was thinking —”
“You should go wherever you think he might be.”
Sylvia glanced toward her mother’s closet. “I was wondering. None of my clothes seem right for the image I want.”
“Let me see.” Laura looked her daughter over. “You’ve always been fuller in the bust, but …” She went to her rack and pulled out something in black.
Sylvia watched her lay the dress out on the bed—black velvet, knee length, no sequins or beads. The garment’s ornamentation was its simplicity. Cut on the bias, it produced a swirling effect from the short-sleeved V-neck top to the scalloped hem.
“That’s it,” Sylvia said.
Chapter 33
Fog was creeping into the Bay, its tendrils reaching toward the City. By the time Lyle entered his loft, just before eight, and went out onto the terrace, he couldn’t see the lights of the Bay Bridge.
His brain felt equally fogged. All mixed up with the risk of losing this wonderful place was the challenge of how to approach Sylvia. If his life were to have any kind of meaning, he had to get her back.
Beads of moisture formed and ran down his French doors, reflecting the red glow of the blinking light on his answering machine. His heart rate accelerated. Perhaps Sylvia had called, and his dilemma was solved.
Lyle closed the space between him and the phone with swift strides. There was a single message.
Pulling up a bar stool, he decided to sit. He pushed the button.
“You have one new message,” chanted the synthetic male voice.
Lyle pushed again to listen.
“Friday, October 13…”
Would it be Lyle’s lucky day?
“Two ten p.m.” The machine tones finished, and a human took over. “Lyle? John Gordon.”
Not Sylvia. Damn.
But John Gordon was highly placed in the DA’s office.
“Listen, this is kind of awkward. I know Dickerson fired you the other morning. Well, after he was taken in for questioning yesterday … Hell, the long and the short of it is, he resigned this morning …”
Lyle broke into a grin.
“…leaving me in the position of acting DA. If we don’t connect today, I’ll see you back at your desk Monday. We’ve got work to do.”
“All right!” Lyle pumped his fist in the air. “There is justice in the world.”
As to whether he wanted to go back, his elation answered for him. After his experience of the past week, he wanted to keep on putting the bad guys behind bars.
Sylvia put the finishing touches on her makeup. Subtle, a touch of foundation to smooth, no blush, and her natural color was enough. A little taupe shadow in her crease to contour, and a bare swipe of mascara in the softer color of black-brown. On her lips, she spread a clear gloss that she had once worn over the scarlet.
The place she still chose to titillate was her lingerie. For Lyle, Sylvia put on matching thong and front-close bra in crimson silk with black lace trim.
She went to the phone. She’d last tried Lyle five minutes ago and it was eight now. He was probably at Ice.
Imagining the Friday evening crowd warming up, couples starting to dance, singles beginning to pair, a clutch of fear went through her. Though she now believed with all her heart that Lyle loved her, she couldn’t rule out the fact that he was probably enraged at her. An angry man looking for an outlet for his testosterone overload might not be above a rebound hookup.
God, she needed to hurry.
Phone in hand, she called a cab.
Lyle sat at his kitchen counter and looked around at his loft. Relief suffused him. He’d be able to stay here. He’d talk Pop into bringing Martha into the City. Lyle had an idea that this time he might come.
There was only one other thing the place needed. With its roomy closets, double sinks, huge shower, and broad lonely bed, it needed Sylvia Chatsworth. Now and forever.
He picked up the phone, fully expecting the Chatsworths number to be unlisted. It was not.
Guess the politician wanted to be available to the People.
This was going to be touch and go. Likely, he’d get Laura or Lawrence even if Sylvia were home. It was their phone. Would either of them turn it over to their daughter once they found out it was Lyle?
The Senator answered. “Lawrence Chatsworth.”
Lyle’s heart started glitching. “This is Lyle Thomas.” He tried to keep his voice from quavering like a kid’s. “May I speak with Sylvia, please?”
“I’m sorry, son.”
Son?
“She isn’t here. She’s gone back to her place in town.”
Lyle suppressed a curse. “All right, then. Thank you.” On the other hand, he wouldn’t have to plead his case in front of her parents.
“No problem. And, Lyle?”
“Sir?”
“Call me Larry.”
Feeling as though hell had just frozen over, Lyle replied, “Okay … Larry.”
“Good luck.”
“That was Lyle?” Laura looked over at Larry from her armchair. She was embroidering a hand towel with a pattern of daisies and violets she’d designed herself.
Larry settled back in his big leather recliner, feet up, the latest best-selling book slamming the extremes of both the Right and the Left open in his lap. “That was Lyle, all right.”
“Why didn’t you tell him Sylvia was looking for him?”
Larry grinned. “Why spoil the surprise? I think it will mean a lot more if he hears it from her.”
Laura returned his smile. “Ah expect you’re right, dear.” She pushed her needle through the soft material.
Then looked up and met her husband’s eyes. “You know, I’ll have to start putting up some linens for the grandchildren.”
Lyle called Sylvia’s town house. He’d memorized the number early in the summer.
Once again, he went through the anxious moments waiting for her to pick up. Why couldn’t he just find her and have it over with? This Friday the thirteenth definitely wasn’t turning out lucky.
Her answering machine came on, false bright, she asked him to leave a message.
Too tricky. He took a pass.
If she wasn’t home, where could she be?
He’d seen on the Internet news about Sylvia’s stateme
nt to the press yesterday afternoon. That seemed to indicate she wouldn’t be found at Ice.
But she was somewhere in the City. With girlfriends like the ones she’d been with at the charity benefit where he met Tony Valetti?
Lyle drummed his fingers on the kitchen counter.
Sylvia might not be at Ice, but he knew someone who might be.
San Francisco would not soon forget Sylvia Chatsworth’s reentry into society. For nearly a month, tongues had been wagging, the gossip and speculation wild and far ranging.
Most had thought she was dead. Some expected she had run off with a man, or men. She might have gone on tour incognito with those bikers, engaging in nightly three-ways.
Yesterday’s news of her return home, the story circulating that she’d been kidnapped by Tony Valetti, who was in jail, brought up stories of her being kept prisoner, shared by the Valetti brothers. The fact that she had promised to give no information sent the rumor mill into overdrive.
Leaving the raincoat she’d worn over Mom’s black dress at the checkroom, Sylvia stepped to the velvet rope and paused, framed by an archway. Like Scarlett O’Hara’s entrance to Melanie’s birthday party after she’d been caught kissing Ashley Wilkes, without the red dress.
She stood for a moment, her eyes flickering over the big room. A hush fell.
At least two hundred people, some familiar, many strangers, but the strangers knew who she was, stopped dancing, drinking, flirting, and stared.
She lifted her chin, clutched her mother’s tasteful evening bag, and stared back.
Then she noticed, here and there, a different look from what she was used to. One of awe, respect, even, for someone who’d been through a life-changing ordeal.
A fellow she’d once played coed basketball with raised his arm. “Hey, Sylvia,” he called. “Looking good.”
Another man chimed in. “And I do mean good.”
Sylvia saw Corrine Walker. The banker’s daughter looked as though she’d bitten a lemon.
The Senator’s Daughter Page 30