Private affairs : a novel (36 page)

"And that's all that matters, isn't it, Matt? Big, bigger, biggest."

"Why not? When was it ever possible before?"

"When was it the main thing in our life before?"

There was a sudden silence. Matt pulled out his chair with his foot and sat down. Elizabeth added ice and mint leaves to their glasses and poured tea from a glazed pitcher Isabel had made her for Christmas the year before. "Matt, do you really think I don't want you to succeed?"

"I don't know what you want. I've been trying to figure it out. We understood each other, once; we wanted everything we could get. But this past year you haven't given me any real help or support; in fact, every chance you get you tell me you don't like Keegan, you don't like Chet, you don't like Cal Artner knowing Chet—as if it makes a damn bit of difference!—you don't like the way I've changed. . . . Would you please tell me what you do like?"

"I like what you used to be. I like what we used to have. I like the determination you had a couple of years ago to work only for yourself, no one else. What happened to that? Doesn't it bother you to work for Keegan, to be at his beck and call—"

"He isn't that way. I've tried to tell you: he gives me all the space I need. I do what I want."

"Well, while you're doing what you want, he's getting to you somehow. Because a lot of your ideas sound like Keegan Rourke, not Matt Lovell."

"You don't know anything about his ideas. Unless, , . ," He frowned. "Unless Tony is telling tales of his terrible father. Is that it? How often does friend Tony stop by Santa Fe these days?"

"Two or three times a month."

"By God, almost as much as your husband. That fills your time nicely, doesn't it?"

"He never came when we were working together!" Elizabeth cried. "Leave him out of it; he has nothing to do with what we're talking about, I've known Keegan longer than you have—"

"But not better. I've seen him or talked to him every day for the past year, and I trust him. I have no reason not to. Do you?"

She was silent.

"Then you don't have much right to criticize. But you'd rather do that than come with me. You'd rather dream about what we used to have— which was pale and insignificant compared to what we can have now— than take a chance on Keegan Rourke and the future." When Elizabeth was still silent, he said "You told me what you like about the way things were. What do you like about the way they are now?"

"Between us? Nothing."

Matt shoved his chair back. "I'll ask you one more time. Will you move to Houston and be part of my life there?"

"Do you want me to?"

"I've never said I didn't."

"That's not an answer, Matt. Are you beginning to wonder whether it would work? You'll still be traveling a lot of the time; is that right?"

"For a while."

"A month? Six months? A year?"

"I don't know."

"So we might have weekends, if we're lucky. Of course, I'll be going various places to interview for my column; maybe our paths would cross once a month. That leaves Holly alone in Houston, where she has no grandparents and no friends,"

"She'd make friends."

"Of course. Then when you and I manage to be home at the same time, I'll be that hostess and good listener and sexual companion you want, while typing my stories with my free hand—"

"Stop it,"

"Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me you'll make sure we have time together. Tell me you really want me to share your life, which means telling you my

feelings about it. Because I couldn't go to Houston and stand by in silence without telling you how I feel about what you and Keegan, and even Chet and Cal, are doing."

"Then you don't have to stand by at all."

The words echoed in the fragrant courtyard. "I didn't mean that," Matt said. "I wish I could make you understand how important this is to me. I know I talk about the excitement of being close to power and having my own ... but it's not fun and games, Elizabeth; it's not the simple problems we had at the Chieftain. It's fighting to prove I can hold my own; it's maneuvering around sharks who think they can run the world—and many of them can, damn it, and they're more ruthless because they know it; it's building walls to protect what I have so no one can take it away. . . ."He leaned forward. "I need you to stand with me, help me believe in myself and what I'm doing, help me fight to get all I can. When we've got our newspaper chain and a uniform policy and people under me I can trust—then I can relax, be a publisher, and spend time with my wife, with all the money we need and the whole world to play in. And you'll be building up your own readership helping me secure our future."

"Very neat," Elizabeth murmured. "I can't imagine a happier couple."

He gazed at her somberly. "We could be very happy."

Elizabeth ran her finger around the rim of her glass. "What would you think if I did interviews on television in addition to the ones in newspapers?"

"Television?" He grew thoughtful. "It would be perfect. Every viewer would connect your name to the local paper that carries your column: the best kind of advertising. Of course you'd have to insist on keeping the name 'Private Affairs'—"

Elizabeth flung herself from her chair and almost ran into the house. Matt found her pacing back and forth in the kitchen, holding herself tightly with folded arms. "What the hell is it now?"

She threw him a look. "I wanted to know what you thought about me in television. Me, Matt, and you, too, because one of the questions I had was how much it might interfere with our marriage—what's left of it. I was asking about me, not the Rourke chain. Can you think about me for a minute separate from your beloved newspapers and powerful boss? I don't give a damn about the Rourke chain—"

"You've made that clear all too often."

"Not clear enough. Not often enough. I want you to make me and your children at least as important as that company. Maybe even put us first. Can you understand that? Have you forgotten how to do it?"

"As much as you've forgotten to put me first. I keep telling you what's happening in my life and all you think about is yourself, Now listen to me. Damn it, sit down and listen!"

"I don't want to sit down,"

He shrugged. "Fine." They stood on opposite sides of the kitchen as if an earthquake had ripped apart the floor between them. "I'll try once more to explain this. For the first time in years I'm controlling my own life. I'm not living my father's life; I'm living my own life, my own dream, the one I had when we were married. Do you remember it?"

"Remember it! We lived it! What were we doing at the Chieftain? Weren't you in control of your life then?"

There was a pause. "Yes. But that was—"

"We were in charge of our life!"

"Let me finish. What we had at the Chieftain was a schoolboy's dream; the one I had when I was twenty-three. It seemed so grand, then: I was going to own a newspaper! My God—a single paper! Sometimes I'd whisper a prayer for two papers. I really thought that would satisfy me!"

"Maybe it would have. If we'd done it then, together, the way we planned."

"Maybe. But the reason Saul is content is that he has his big time behind him. I haven't had mine. I'm just beginning it. And I'll do anything it takes—however many hours a day, however many days a year— but I'm going to make it. I am not going to crawl back to this town a failure. Keegan's given me the chance to do everything and be everything I could ever want, and all you've given me are arguments to hold me back. You tried to convince me not to trust him. You wondered why he'd chosen me. You could have had enough faith in your husband to believe he chose me because I was good at my job! Every time you've come to Houston you've criticized the people I work with. And now you want me to quit—sorry, slow down, be satisfied with what I've got, ignore what I might achieve and how far I might go, settle back in my rocking chair and declare myself a happy man."

Elizabeth shook her head. "No, you wouldn't be happy. It's too late. You'd always think the great exciting world was passing you by. And you'd blame me,"

"Not If you="

"Not if I agreed with you and accepted the life you make. But it's too late for that, too, I didn't think I was trying to hold you back, Matt. I always believed in you, But I wanted to be realistic, understand what was happening, go a little slowly so we'd really be in control of our direction, We, Matt. Together. That's what you left out of your story. We had those

dreams together, and maybe they were timid and young, but I was excited about them because they were about two people who were in love and getting married and planning to work together as partners. And when we came back here to take care of Zachary, you weren't the only one to give up a dream; I did, too. I waited, too. But Keegan wasn't looking for me in Aspen; he came for you and you went along, as starry-eyed as a teenager, and got busy remaking the world, and that put an end to what we were building together: a new partnership, a new marriage. By now we can't even talk about my interviewing on television. Did you ask me how I feel about it? Did you ask how many days I'd have to be in Los Angeles—?"

"Los Angeles?"

"It doesn't matter where. New York, Berlin, Moscow—what difference does it make? You weren't curious enough to ask. All you thought about was the impact it might have on your newspapers. You weren't so preoccupied with grabbing your brass ring a couple of years ago—you had time for the rest of us, then—but Keegan has always thought of grabbing opportunities for himself first. It must please him to see how well you've learned his lessons/'

Her throat was tight. She turned away, putting her palms on the cool tiles of the countertop. "You said I didn't have to stand by. You meant that. You try to pretend that you want me, probably because you think a man ought to want his wife, but I think you'd be happiest if I stayed out of your way. And I'd rather do that, Matt: stay out of the way while you and Keegan go after all the money and power and influence you can get, in any way you can, without my questions or criticism. It's probably best for you: sometimes people travel fastest and farthest alone." She moved toward the door, her back to Matt, to get out of there before the tightness in her throat turned to tears. "I wish we could have found a way . . . some way to—"

"Elizabeth, damn it, I love you." Matt was behind her, holding her with her back against him, his face in her hair. "Come with me. You helped me before; help me again. And then we'll have everything. There's nothing we can't do if we do it together."

His arms were strong and warm around her, and she put her hands on his, remembering all the times their bodies had been so close, closer, joined. "I'll live with you in Houston if you want me to stand with you when I think you're right and disagree when I think you're wrong, and try to slow you down if I think what you're doing is destroying what we have. Do you want that?"

"A loaded question," he said wryly. "You answer for me."

"Your answer is no. You don't want me there. I think you still love me

... or maybe what you love is the idea of the perfect woman: loving wife, mother, helpmate, successful career woman with her own newspaper column, maybe even a television show. The ideal companion for Kee-gan Rourke's publisher. Why do you hold me this way, so we can't see each other or kiss each other?"

After a moment, his lips still in her hair, he said, "I don't want you to see my eyes."

She nodded. She felt empty and cold. "I'd hoped I was wrong, but I wasn't, was I?" Loosening his clasp around her waist, she turned within his arms to face him, her hands on his shoulders, her eyes searching his, and she knew he agreed with her: he could go farthest and fastest alone. "I love you, Matt. But I want you to go. Now."

He touched her hair, then dropped his arms. "Will you tell Peter and Holly I . . . had to leave early? I'll call them. I'd like them to come to Houston. You could come with them. We'll work that out, don't you think? I'll call you. You'll be here?"

"Yes."

"I'll call you. Tell Peter and Holly. . . ."

Elizabeth nodded. There was a long silence. And then he turned and left.

"Wait," Elizabeth said. "You didn't pack." But there was no one to hear her. And then she realized it didn't matter. He had a closet full of clothes in Houston. And work and friends and challenges and dreams.

He had another life. And when she got used to that idea, and figured out what it meant to both of them, she'd have to find a life of her own that didn't include him. At least for a while. At least until they decided whether this arrangement—whatever it was, exactly—was what they wanted.

On the table beside the telephone was a picture of them in Matt's office at the Chieftain. She picked it up and ran her sleeve over the glass. She rubbed it harder and harder, her arm moving as fast as it could, polishing the glass above those smiling faces until she realized they were blurred because of her tears. Carefully she put it down and turned away. And as she did, she caught a glimpse through the doorway of the television set in the corner of the den—and once again heard Tony's voice. It can make you famous.

H A P T E R

B

o Boyle had been the producer of "Anthony" since its premiere, hitching his career to its popularity, building a new personality for himself as he and the show became more successful. From Booton Eamon O'Boyle, choir boy and playground coward at St. Joseph's Grammar and High School in Newark, New Jersey, he had transformed himself, beneath the shimmering Los Angeles sun, into Bo Boyle, who was climbing to the top in television with astonishing speed. He was beginning to attract notice for making lackluster game shows more lively, when, out of the blue, he was plucked from a dozen contenders with better backgrounds and named producer of "Anthony."

Insulted by his new producer's lack of glamorous credits, Tony Rourke ignored him, but Bo Boyle, amiable and tenacious, outwaited him and within six months they had settled into a friendly, if wary, partnership. It was good for both of them: Boyle's changes in lighting, stage set, and pacing made Tony look better, and when the ratings went up, that made Boyle look good.