Eight
Despite the glitter of a massive chandelier overhead, the potent scent of gardenias in the ornate centerpieces, the clink of crystal wineglasses, the inviting plate of poached salmon in front of him, and the high-powered chatter of more than a dozen of New York’s most elite political couples, Artemas was trying not to fall asleep. The struggle had become a habit over the four years since he’d taken over Colebrook China. Given any moment of relative peace without a calculator or a computer or a sheaf of notes in front of him, his thoughts wandered and his eyelids filled with sand. He wanted to excuse himself and step outside on the room’s balcony for a reviving minute in the frigid air, but the new year’s first snow was falling.
Marketing reports, management analyses, inventory outlines, and interoffice memos swam lazily in his mind. Senator DeWitt’s oratorical bass voice droned pleasantly from the head of the table, as the senator held forth on the attributes of the recently inaugurated Ronald Reagan. Artemas focused on the heavily engraved sterling fork in his hand and willed it to slice a section from the salmon. A set of delicate, pale fingers appeared on the sleeve of his black dinner jacket. A soft, feminine voice whispered
nearby, with lilting humor, “I’ll have someone bring you a cup of coffee.”
Decorum and willpower overcame drowsiness. He straightened and looked gratefully at the delicate dark-haired young woman beside him, her solemn, pleasant little face coming into clear focus. Glenda De Witt, the senators only offspring, looked demure, even frail, in a frothy red gown cut high on her thin shoulders. Her unpretentiousness and her intelligence were shown in large pale green eyes that watched him shyly. Her small hand withdrew and settled gracefully on a glass of mineral water beside her plate. The slice of salmon there was plain, dry, and unappetizing. Glenda never complained about her severe diabetes or the regimen it imposed on her life, or the multitude of related health problems that kept her sheltered in the doting senator’s care even now, though she was several years out of an elite women’s college, where she’d majored in French literature.
“I’ll have to learn more about ceramics and china,” she said, tilting her head at Artemas and watching him with open affection. “So we’ll have something to discuss that will keep you awake.”
“It’s not your fault. In fact, I let myself doze because I feel so comfortable with you.” He smiled at her gallantly. A blush crept up her thin cheeks. They’d known each other for years, meeting at social functions hosted by the senator, talking easily, finding shared ground in her interest in fine china and his appreciation for her unspoiled nobility. She said with a light laugh, “I doubt the other females you know would consider that a compliment.”
“I don’t know that many—not in the way you mean. I don’t have time.”
“I enjoy talking with you. I look forward to it.” She cast a rueful gaze at her spartan dinner and glass of water. “It’s one of my few reckless pleasures.”
“Tell me about your work with the library foundation.”
“Really? It’s not nearly as exciting as what you’re doing—the new company you bought.”
“Industrial ceramics are much less interesting than
literature, I assure you. Especially when my main concern is whether adding a small, unknown company to Colebrook China is the first foolish thing I’ve done.”
“That’s not what Father says. He thinks venturing into industrial ceramics is the
smartest
thing you’ve done. He’s so pragmatic. You
know
he judges everything by its usefulness.” Her expression became pensive. “Except me. I’m the only frivolous thing he loves.”
“You’re not frivolous. The world would be a very dull, narrow-minded place without people who love and preserve books.”
Her face brightened. She called for the waiter to bring a cup of coffee. When it arrived at Artemas’s place, she bent her head close to his and whispered, “Please stay awake and talk to me. You’re the only reason I’m not falling face-forward into the salmon myself.”
He laughed and saluted her with a raised cup. She clinked her glass of water to it. Artemas caught the senator watching the two of them shrewdly.
After dinner, when the other guests were having drinks in the living room, the senator beckoned Artemas into his darkly paneled office and shut the doors. “My daughter adores you,” he said, fitting a pipe into his mouth and flicking a gold lighter over the bowl. As he sucked the flame into the tobacco, he studied Artemas over the blue-gray smoke rising from the pipe’s bowl.
Senator DeWitt was the perfect media image of a stately politician—white-haired, dignified, tanned, with a jowly, rugged face. A widower for many years, he maintained wily discretion over his personal life, and the only rumors that surfaced about him added to his charm with the public. It was said that he was a favorite with the older women in his gentrified social tribe. It was also said, with fearful awe, that he was the most powerful senator on the Armed Services Committee.
Artemas suspected that there had been a time, decades ago, when his grandmother and the senator had been more than friends. His loyalty to her in the later years—a platonic
loyalty by then, Artemas thought—had never flagged.
Artemas measured his response carefully. “I think Glenda is one of the most courageous and principled people I’ve ever met.”
The senator arched a bushy white brow at him and settled in a leather armchair. “That’s a diplomatic answer. You’ve been very kind to her.” He gestured to the chair across from his. Artemas sat down slowly, alert and wary. “I consider her a friend. I don’t pity her, if that’s what you mean.”
“Good.” The senator laid his pipe on an ash stand and leaned forward, his shrewd gaze boring into Artemas. “You’ve done a remarkable job of salvaging Colebrook China from complete ruin, but its future is far from secure. The smallest setback could destroy all you’ve worked for in the past few years. Industrial ceramics are your only hope of building a solid financial base.”
“Yes.” The strange segue from Glenda to his struggles to save Colebrook China perplexed Artemas. “I realize I have to expand beyond the china business.”
“Your youth and your family’s reputation are against you. The competition for military contracts is ferocious. I can make certain that you have the edge you need to survive. It is a question of ruthless survival, Artemas, and if you don’t face that fact, you’ll lose everything.”
“In time I can—”
“Work yourself to death and see very little in return for it.” The senator gave Artemas a look filled with deep weariness. “I’ve circumvented the schemes of at least a dozen men who’d like to marry a senator’s daughter. Now, I find myself in the odd position of having discovered one man who’s worthy of her but who isn’t interested.”
“I like Glenda too much to disappoint her—or to imply a commitment I can’t make.”
The senator savored his pipe for a moment, his eyes narrowing in thought. “You’ve had your share of women. I know—I’ve checked. A few months here, a year there—
faithful devotions, from what I’ve heard, each monogamous, as long as each lasted. You break things off when the women become too serious. It’s not a record that reveals any urge for stability, but nothing that condemns you either. At least you’re honest.”
“I have all the permanent responsibilities I want, with my work and my brothers and sisters. And now, with the new company—”
“Typlex Ceramics.” The senator smiled, stroking his pipe stem. “A less scrupulous young man would have no reservations about cultivating my influence over military contracts. Or about using my daughter to win it.”
“I know that. That’s one reason I’ve avoided Glenda.”
“My daughter has been deprived of so much she deserves.” The senator stood, clasped his hands behind his back, and went to the fireplace. He scowled down into the flames, looking haggard. “She was only nine years old when we lost her mother. She’s always been restricted and sheltered because of her diabetes. The doctors have told her she’s too frail to bear children.”
He faced Artemas, and his expression hardened. “I want her to have everything she wants, before—before her health fails completely. And if that includes you, I’ll do whatever is necessary to get you for her.” He paused, watching Artemas closely “Don’t look so shocked, my boy. I was a good friend to your grandmother. I helped her as best I could, and she knew there’d come a time when the favor would be repaid. Now is that time.”
“You’re asking me to deceive Glenda? To treat her like a fool?”
“As long as you make her happy, and she never learns the truth. You’ll be faithful to her, and gentle. You’ll treat her the way I want her treated.”
“My God.”
“You say you care about her. You imply that you have great respect for her. And certainly, though she’s no beauty and she’s not the most robust young woman in the world, she’s not unappealing to you—physically.”
“But that’s not enough. It’s not fair to her for you to—”
“It’s heinous of me to provide my daughter with happiness? Even at your expense?” He shook his head. “What have you got to lose—a haphazard sex life with women who don’t mean very much to you? And in return, I’m offering you the kind of opportunities you
cannot
turn down. A respected, admired, devoted wife. An influential father-in-law Most important, a future for your business. Security for your brothers and sisters. A chance to build the dreams your grandmother drilled into you from the time you were a child.
Her
dreams—the only ones your father and your uncle didn’t ruin for her.” He paused, his eyes becoming colder. “I’m offering you a chance to make a powerful friend, instead of a powerful enemy.”
Artemas stood, his thoughts jagged, anger and pride battling with the cold determination that had driven him for years. The senator added softly, “You owe me a debt. Pay that debt and you won’t be sorry. I don’t really think you have a choice. If you think you can achieve all you want without sacrifice, then it’s time you learned a lesson about reality. You’re not selling your soul, my boy. You’re only pawning it. Someday you’ll have all the money and power you need to buy it back.”
Artemas returned late that night to the old warehouse he’d bought and refurbished for Colebrook’s new headquarters. A cold January moon hung over the riverfront. The area was seedy, but developers were moving in to restore it. He’d bought ahead of the rush. Always thinking of the future. He had a large apartment upstairs, above the maze of offices and meeting rooms. James had his own apartment not far from the offices. At twenty-four, only two years younger than Artemas, he was already deeply involved in duties for Colebrook. Cass and the rest still lived at the old brownstone close by. Cass was getting a master’s in art, and the twins were in college—Michael majoring in psychology, Elizabeth in business. Julia was still in high school. Artemas kept tabs on all of them. In time, they’d take their places in his plans. He’d never tell them what he’d done tonight.
The apartment was spartan, with soaring, steel-girdered ceilings and creaking wood floors. The furnishings were old pieces gleaned from salvage shops—not only because he was frugal, but because he liked them. He lay, fully clothed, on his bed, which was no more than a mattress and springs set on a plain metal frame in the middle of the vast space. A year ago he’d begun smoking to alleviate the boredom of endless paperwork. A full ashtray lay on his chest, a carton of filtered cigarettes beside it. He drank from a bottle of bourbon he’d bought at a package store on the way home.
When he was sufficiently drunk, he crushed his last cigarette into the crammed ashtray and reached for the stack of mail LaMieux had placed on his nightstand.
The letter from Lily lay on top. He held it up to the light of the metal desk lamp bolted to the nightstand, staring at it, letting the light shine through it, illuminating her bold handwriting. She was eighteen years old now, saving money to enter college, planning to study botany. He remembered from her last letter.
He’d return to Blue Willow someday and enjoy seeing how she’d grown up, whom she’d married—if anyone; he knew Lily’s streak of independence—and what kind of plans she had for her beloved old farm. And if she ever asked for advice, or money, he’d give generously.
So he shouldn’t be feeling guilty. What he held in his hand were just polite words on paper from someone whose childhood fantasies had merged with his, someone who had admired and encouraged him ever since, as he had her.
He crumpled the letter in his fist and dropped it into a trash can under the nightstand. She had lost her Old Brook Prince, and he didn’t know how to tell her so.
They had on their best clothes. For once, Zea’s back didn’t ache. It was a sunny Saturday afternoon, and there was a hint of spring in the air that curled into the old truck when Zea rolled the window down a crack. She drove because Drew had trouble negotiating traffic on the busy
interstate with only one good hand. She smiled at him. He looked so handsome sitting next to her, like Gary Cooper, she thought, in his brown suit with the new tie she’d given him for their anniversary He draped his hand on her knee, his big, blunt fingers tickling her through the skirt of her new dress. Flirting with her like he always did. Zea shoved his hand away, and he put it back. She smiled as she drove.
Lily teased them about their games sometimes, when she caught them necking in front of the fireplace or saw
one
slap the other on the fanny in passing. But she was proud of her parents, and said so. Proud that after twenty years of marriage they still wanted to flirt with each other. When she’d heard that they wanted to go to Atlanta for the day and have dinner, she’d presented them with a registration slip for a downtown hotel. She’d given them a room for the night, with a hot tub.
“You better save that for the hot tub,” Zea said now, as Drew edged her skirt up and tickled her inner thigh. “We haven’t even had dinner yet.”
“We could go to the hotel first, then go to dinner.”
She cut her eyes at him, flashed him a coy look, and caught his sly grin in response. When she returned her attention to the crowded highway, he withdrew his hand and turned the radio on. He found Merle Haggard on a station and settled back happily. “One of these years,” he said, his voice low and thoughtful, “after we’ve helped Lily go off to college, I’m gonna build us a hot tub on the back porch. Every night you and me’ll strip all our clothes off and sit in it and drink some wine.”