Private affairs : a novel (41 page)

"I hope not. Both of us need friends." He reset the answering machine and picked up their luggage. "Ready to go?"

When they were in the car, retracing their route of the day before, this time with Holly in the back seat, Matt said, "You'll come back soon, won't you? I want to be as much a part of your lives as I can."

"Double lives," Peter mumbled.

"What?" asked Holly, leaning forward.

"Double lives, double families, double homes, double cities. We used to have one family. Now we've got two."

"When that happens," Matt said, pulling into a parking place at the airport, "make the best of both of them."

"Sure," Peter said. He thought about it while they walked through the terminal to their gate. And when it came time to board the plane and Holly hugged and kissed her father goodbye and Peter self-consciously shook hands with him, he couldn't keep from saying, "You're really coldblooded about the whole thing, aren't you?"

"No," said Matt. He pulled Peter to him and hugged him. "I have a lot of second thoughts, and I miss you all. But this is what I have to do."

"Are you going to call that woman back?"

"Yes. She's a friend. But listen to me, both of you." He held their hands in his. "We're going to be friends, more than ever before, I promise that, and we're going to help each other. And I'll try to make you understand what I'm doing and why I think it's important. I'd like your approval. And your love."

"Well, you've got that," Holly said. They walked to the gate. "We'll give your love to Mother, too."

And they went through the doorway to the plane, their last view of Matt the same as the one yesterday morning: taller than everyone else, standing alone, hoping for their smile.

N,

icole let the chiffon stole slip from her bare shoulders and settled with a sigh into the curve of the wing-backed chair. "My favorite place to relax,*' she said in her husky voice, and smiled at Matt as he turned back to her from a quick study of the antiques and fine paintings that had furnished La Colombe d'Or since its days as a private home. "The Fondrens built it; they were one of the founders of Exxon. They called it Humble Oil, then, though not much in Houston is humble—"

"Or stays that way," Matt finished, smiling with her. "But you're right; it's a beautiful place."

"And nicer than usual, with good company after a weekend entertaining an extremely dull crowd. How was yours? Work or play?"

"A little of both," Matt replied wryly. "I entertained my offspring and fended off criticism."

"Surely not the whole weekend."

"No, mostly we had a good time. It's wonderful being with them. But now and then, without warning, there were jabs."

She tilted her head. "Mostly from your son, I'd bet. Protecting his mother."

Matt picked up the oversize wine list. "What would you like? Wine? Cognac?"

"Amontillado, please." She seemed about to say more, then was silent, and Matt admired her for it. He'd made it clear they were not to discuss his family, and she accepted it without comment.

He put the wine list aside. "Who was the dull crowd you entertained this weekend?"

"Some investors Keegan is wooing for a hotel and conference center in Breckenridge. I learned more about square footage and tax revenues and Colorado politics than I ever wanted to know. You and I can find more interesting subjects to talk about."

"Your trip, then. I didn't know you were going out of town." A waiter approached, and he ordered the same sherry for both of them. "You didn't mention it last week."

"I'm sorry; I suppose I assume everyone knows. No one stays in Houston in July and August, Matt."

"Except a few working people."

"But you could get away, couldn't you? Keegan wouldn't crack such a mean whip—"

"What does he have to do with it? I make my own schedule; I know how much work I have to do."

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that." The waiter put their drinks on the table. "All of a sudden we seem to be angry with each other."

"I'm the one who should apologize. I'm jealous because you're getting out of this muggy metropolis. Where are you going?"

"Maine. I own a small place there."

Matt thought of her sprawling house and the apartment she had decorated for him. "You have your own definition of 'small.' A small house? A small hotel? A small town?"

"A small island." She looked quizzically at him and they laughed. "With a rather small house, and a truly small motor boat to get to the small town on the shore."

"Plus a small staff."

"Two people. In the summer my needs are simple, my wants are few."

"Nothing about you is simple."

She gave him a long, slow smile, then raised her glass. "To simple desires."

He touched her glass with his, and she sat perfectly still, letting him look at her, as she had at her party. In the muted light from antique glass fixtures, her bare shoulders were pale against a black strapless dress embroidered in black roses. At her throat was an ebony rose on a silver

chain; her hair was a cloud of black darkening her amber eyes. Her scent was elusive, faintly spicy; her fingers long, with polished nails; the corners of her mouth curved with pleasure at the look in his eyes. "I'm glad I meet with your approval."

"And if you didn't?" Matt asked.

"I'd change what you didn't approve ... or change your mind about approving it."

He chuckled. "Which would be easier?"

"It would depend on where we were, and what we were doing."

The spiciness of her perfume blended with the heady aroma of his sherry and, instinctively, Matt sat back in his chair, putting distance between them. "Tell me about Maine," he said. "I've never been there."

"Cool and forested," she replied, once more letting him guide their conversation, once more doing it without visible disappointment or anger. "Rocky soil and shoreline, high waves, chilly nights with black shadows from a white moon. Wild and beautiful and the perfect antidote to the bayou and a season of parties."

"You enjoy parties."

"I couldn't live without them. But Maine is like the day after an all-night bash: a cool place to stretch out and relax, relive the night before, plan the next one. ..."

"Plot the future."

"Plots are for writers and spies. I dream. And try to make my plans match my dreams."

The waiter paused at their table. Matt ordered two more sherries, then, smiling easily, said, "Well put. Now tell me more about your small island."

A shadow crossed her eyes, gone the instant Matt identified it as her first betrayal of impatience. But then she did as he asked, talking pleasantly about her ten-room house and gazebo surrounded by pines; the gardens tended by a local gardener who grew snapdragons, asters, and dahlias in planters atop the shallow soil, as well as cherry tomatoes and bibb lettuce for her table; days spent swimming off the rocks, water skiing, shopping for handcrafts in the towns along the coast. Undemanding, amusing, worldly, she told him in a dozen unspoken ways how attractive she found him. The perfect companion, Matt thought, and was thinking of extending his original invitation for a drink to include dinner when, as if anticipating him, she mentioned a dinner party where she was expected at eight-thirty. "And I'd better get home or I won't have time to change." She slipped out of her chair. "I've enjoyed this. If you wait too long to call again, I'll call you, so we can repeat it."

Peter would have snorted, Matt thought as they parted in front of the hotel; he'd have said she was playing games. And he would have been right. But even Peter had been captivated by Nicole's voice on the recorder. Peter would understand her attraction, and the pleasure a man would take in her games—and in being pursued.

Though, even understanding that, Peter still would have found a way to make a pointed comment about his mother—to make sure his father hadn't forgotten her.

His father hadn't forgotten.

Matt thought about Elizabeth more now, it seemed, than before their break at the end of May. By the beginning of July, he still found himself frequently reaching for the telephone to call her. But often there was no answer. She was probably shopping, he thought. Or interviewing for her column, or that damn television show. Or visiting Isabel or her parents. Or talking shop with Saul at the Chieftain. How the hell could he keep track of what she did with her days? Or her nights? Sometimes she was there and they exchanged a few words; other times he talked to his children or Lydia, who frequently answered to say she and Spencer were taking Peter and Holly to dinner because Elizabeth was in Los Angeles.

But his own days and nights were so crowded he couldn't think about Elizabeth for long before something broke in. As soon as it became known that he was living in Houston, his calendar filled up with meetings, paperwork piled high on his desk, his hours at the office grew longer. He was still buying papers, based on Chefs reports; he talked every week to each of his twenty-one editors and tried to keep up with the politics in all twenty-one cities and whatever local issues got people aroused enough to fork over twenty-five cents a day to read about them. Between telephone calls he read reports on circulation campaigns, contests to capture new readers, plans for changes in layout, whether using color would attract enough new readers to justify the expense, how important readers thought bigger weather maps and longer television listings were since they left less space for local stories—dozens of reports, dozens of questions that someone had to answer.

"You can't do it all," Chet told him as he added a folder to the stack on Matt's desk. "New people always think they can, but of course they fail. You should tell Mr. Rourke you need an assistant, maybe two or—"

"Thank you," Matt said curtly. "I'll tell Mr. Rourke what I need when I need to. Is that the financial report on the Austin Star?"

"Right." His face blank, Chet turned to go. "They're anxious to sell. If you have any questions, don't hesitate to call me."

Absently, Matt nodded. Elizabeth would say he should be more careful

with Chet. And she'd be right. But he didn't have the patience; lately his temper was more erratic than ever. And he didn't have time, either, to tiptoe around Chet. Not only because of paperwork and phone calls and traveling two or three days a week, but also because he still was being tested, his decisions scrutinized, his activities monitored. He saw Rourke daily, and was part of everything that affected his newspapers, yet he felt he had to tread carefully, constantly proving himself.

"I'd better do something about this," he said to Rourke a few weeks after Peter and Holly's visit. Houston wilted under the heat of late July and everything seemed to have slowed down except the work pouring across his desk, which included the memo he brought to Rourke from the editor of the Tucson Call.

"We might be in for a strike," it said. "No one died in the pressroom accident, but Dugan thinks we're in a weak position because of it, and he's demanding we begin negotiating a new contract now, six months before the old one expires; otherwise he's hinting about a strike over unsafe working conditions. We barely broke even in the first six months; I don't think we could weather a strike."

"I'll be there Monday," Matt told Rourke, showing him the memo. "I've already rearranged my schedule for next week."

Rourke frowned. "We had good relations with Dugan. What happened?"

"Damned if I know. Negotiations were set to begin in a couple of months; everybody was happy. Something tore it apart, and it wasn't that accident. That's one of the things I'm looking into."

Rourke nodded thoughtfully. "What's wrong with the Call Matt? You've had it seven months; long enough to show some progress."

"I don't know what's wrong. Equipment and morale were in bad shape when we bought it, but—"

"But it was the same with Graham's chain. Half the papers you buy are in trouble and you pull them out. Why not this one?"

Matt shook his head. "I can't get the staff moving. It's sluggish, as if it's determined to prove the paper won't make it. The other day I had the crazy idea they'd been bribed to throw it, like a baseball team throwing a game. But of course that is crazy: they'd be doing themselves out of a job."

Rourke leaned back in his chair. "I understand they're getting mail for Trivate Affairs.' "

"It's the only part of the paper that's working. I don't know where we'd be without it."

"You'd be finding a way to succeed. You're the one who turns these

papers around, Matt; no one else. And you'll succeed in Tucson; you've never failed yet. I suggest you send Chet there first. He can fill you in before you talk to them. You have more important things to do than digging up background information."

"I don't think we need Chet in Tucson."

"I think we do. He has a way of sizing up situations, and you've used enough of his reports to know he's thorough. He can save you a week of listening to everyone lie about everyone else. And, Matt, when you get there, don't give that bunch any leeway. We don't negotiate at gunpoint. Fire Dugan, fire the whole staff if necessary; you can always bring in people from other papers until you hire new ones. You've given them a new printing press—they know it's on order—you don't have to give anything else, at least until the contract is up."

Matt felt a flash of dislike. "I didn't 'give' them a printing press. I ordered one because two men were injured on the old one. And of course I'm going to negotiate. But I can do it informally; Ernie Dugan and I understand each other. I sit in on his poker games when I'm in town and we've gone drinking together, and we have an equal stake in the Call. He's right about our being in a weak position if they talk about striking over unsafe conditions; I gambled that I could wait a year before spending money on new equipment. I was wrong. But I don't think he'll push that; he knows we're not making a profit yet."

"If you think you know Dugan, I won't argue," Rourke said pleasantly. "But I'd like Chet to do the advance work. Indulge me, Matt. I don't think you'll regret it."

Matt hesitated, then nodded. He didn't want to meet Ernie Dugan with Chet nosing around in the background, but whining wasn't his job; getting along with Keegan Rourke was.

Ernie Dugan, just under five feet tall, with a dense tangle of black beard that was his special pride, claimed he had only two sports, poker and negotiating contracts, and he played them both with passion. From the first time he invited Matt to sit in on his weekly poker game, and the two of them had sat up afterward, drinking and comparing their different lives, he'd called Matt the only honest publisher he'd ever met. But something had changed by the time Matt arrived in Tucson and Chet met his plane. "All his officers," Chet said as they drove in from the airport. "And two from national headquarters. They're all waiting for you."

"I told Ernie on the phone I wanted a private talk," Matt said.

Chet put out his hand, palm up. "I didn't know that. I put together a team of our own people so we wouldn't be outnumbered. By the way, I'd

rather you didn't tell him I told you about his crew; he thinks he's going to surprise us."

"Surprise us? That's not the way Ernie plays; what's got into him?"

"He thinks he has us by the balls and he's going to get all he can. Just don't tell him I said anything; I don't want to lose my sources of information."

That was twice in two minutes Chet had told him to keep quiet. Matt looked at him thoughtfully, but Chet was concentrating on his driving and they made the rest of the trip in silence.

"I'll be in the editor's office," Matt said when they arrived. "Tell him to meet me there. And the business manager. No one else. And tell Ernie to come in when they leave."

"But everyone's waiting for—"

"Chet."

"Right. Give me a minute. ..."

"Not too long." Matt waited in the bare office the editor had never redecorated, thinking the paper could fold at any time. When the editor and business manager came in, he gave them barely time to sit down. "I'm going to talk to Dugan myself, and try to find out what the hell is going on around here; can you give me any reason why I shouldn't?"

The editor, knowing he was being bypassed, shrugged. "I haven't been able to talk to him for weeks; he looks past me."