Once More With Feeling (4 page)

"I gave a dinner party the week that Berlin
was reunited. The florist built a wall of flowers across the dining
room table and it collapsed spectacularly when the first course was
set on the table. I have grown fond of rose petals in my
consomme."

"Tell me his name wasn't Rick."

Marguerite gave a sly wink. "However did you
know?"

Marguerite, tall, blond, and horsey, had
been Elisabeth's friend since infancy. She could ride to hounds in
the morning and picket Madison Avenue furriers the same afternoon
without a thought for the irony. She had blood ties to the
Vanderbilts, the Roosevelts, and other historic three-syllable
names too numerous to mention, but she had married apple-cheeked
Seamus O'Keefe, who called himself a landscape architect and was
really just a gardener. Seamus had made it his life's work to dig
up every inch of Birch Haven, their Litchfield County estate, and
replant it with tropical plant life that required constant
vigilance. In private Owen called him Exotic Compost O'Keefe in
honor of Seamus's never-ending supply of Zone 10 plants that hadn't
made the adjustment to Connecticut's Zone 5 winters.

The Adamsons arrived next. Missy
Adamson--who years before had debated excising the "i" in her first
name to make it more politically correct--was a steel magnolia from
the heart of Dixie. Behind the Confederate cotillion smile, the
stiffly-sprayed dark hair, and the sorghum-sweet accent was a woman
with graduate degrees in three languages and the canny ability to
use them in furthering her husband's career. Richard Adamson, with
a smile as powerful as Owen's and sandy hair that hadn't yet turned
gray, was a former congressman who was busily positioning himself
to become the next Democratic governor of New York.

Richard kissed Elisabeth on the lips, a
chaste, political kiss that was only slightly more intimate than a
handshake at a crowded rally. Elisabeth had dated Richard when she
was an English Literature major at Mt. Holyoke and he was prelaw at
Yale. Even then he had been intent on running for office someday,
and he had limited himself to girls with pristine, proper
backgrounds. On the third date she had begun to understand that
behind Richard's quick wit and sincere desire to change the world
dwelled a man who was capable of marrying her solely because her
bland patrician beauty was an ideal complement to his. They had
remained friends despite the fact that she had refused to go out
with him again.

"Every time I come here I realize Owen
didn't do his best work for me." He turned up the wattage on his
smile to be certain Elisabeth knew he was teasing. "This house is
spectacular. Ours is merely magnificent."

Richard and Missy had hired Owen's firm to
design and build a "country house" in another North Shore
community. Their home stood on six acres overlooking Long Island
Sound, and three years ago it had garnered Owen a prize from the
American Institute of Architects.

"I'll consider a trade," Elisabeth said.
"Our view of Manhattan isn't nearly as perfect as yours." In
reality, the Whitfields had no view of Manhattan.

"I'll warn you, you can't take a thing with
you. I want it exactly as it is."

"The weeds in my flower garden and the lint
in my dryer?"

He laughed. "Sorry, the deal's off."

Owen ushered the O'Keefes and Adamsons into
the library, where a fire roared and the caterer had begged to
serve hors d'oeuvres. Before Elisabeth could make certain the first
tray was on its way, the doorbell rang again. She waved away
Georgina and answered the door herself.

Attila Molnar smothered her in an expansive
hug, followed closely by his wife Lorraine. They were similarly
dumpy and good-humored, but Attila was a shrewd businessman who had
expanded his father's tiny Hungarian language newspaper into a
chain of tiny English language newspapers that stretched from sea
to shining sea.

"Got a story for you," he told Elisabeth as
the three of them walked, arms around each others' waists, toward
the library.

She murmured her interest. Attila was the
editor of the
Paumanok Sentinel
, the paper for which
Elisabeth wrote an occasional feature story. Several years ago,
after turning over management of the syndicate to his oldest son,
Attila had taken over the Sentinel as a hedge against retirement.
Then he had patiently convinced Elisabeth to write for him whenever
time permitted. It was the one thing she did that had absolutely
nothing to do with her role as Owen Whitfield's wife.

Elisabeth untangled herself from the Molnars
and led them into the library, where greetings were exchanged. She
got them drinks and made sure everyone else was comfortable before
she drifted back to Attila's side. The conversation centered around
the room itself, with its dual Palladian windows looking over the
terrace and formal garden, and the white marble fireplace with a
fanciful curved mantel that echoed the arch of the windows. It was
Owen's favorite room, one where he sometimes sat for hours with
papers and books strewn over the mahogany table.

"I have never seen a house with such perfect
views . . . except maybe ours," Missy said. "It's like you frame
every one of them before you even break ground. Do you, Owen? Is
that what you do? Is there a window in any house you design that
looks out over a driveway?"

"Oh, even his driveways are spectacular,"
Marguerite said. "Most of us would consider ourselves lucky to gaze
at one."

"So when are you going to let me renovate
Birch Haven?" Owen asked Marguerite.

"Birch Haven would suffer tremendously if so
much as a tile were pried loose."

"I can't even get her to replace the
slipcovers," Seamus said. "Marg says that only the nouveau riche
care if their slipcovers are frayed."

Marguerite slipped her arm through his. "The
newly rich will not stay that way if they throw away their
money."

As the conversation drifted to people they
all knew, Elisabeth forced herself to relax an inch at a time. She
reminded herself that except for Anna, the people assembled in the
library were ones she really cared about. The fire was warm; the
caterer's rumaki was memorable. And Anna and Owen hadn't exchanged
any new soulful glances in the minutes since Anna's arrival.

"Then, of course, there was that horrible
story about her on one of those news shows that really aren't. You
know the ones I mean. The kind that do reenactments and interviews
with the pet groomers of celebrity murderers."

Elizabeth looked up at Marguerite's words.
She knew everyone had been discussing the fate of a former New York
congresswoman who had been drummed out of office after a
titillating scandal, but she had lost the thread of the
conversation. "What show is that?"

"I'm sure I don't know the name of it.
The Whole World
, or something like that."

"
The Whole Truth
," Lorraine said.
Attila's wife never apologized for her working class roots, her
tastes, or her nasal Bronx accent. "I watch it all the time. I'm
gonna slim down to a size three one of these days and dye my hair.
I think I'd look just like that Gypsy Dugan."

"You really watch it?" For once Marguerite
was stunned.

"Sure I do. I sit there with a box of
Kleenex, and I get a good cry almost every day. Cheaper than a
psychiatrist, and I pick up fashion tips by watching what that
Gypsy wears."

Attila turned to Elisabeth. "Remember I told
you I had a story for you?"

"Absolutely."

"Well, it was Lorraine's idea. Gypsy Dugan's
coming to a symposium at Stony Brook as a guest lecturer, and I
managed to get a ticket. I want you to do a feature about her for
next week's paper."

Elisabeth couldn't think of a thing to say.
For a moment she wondered if Attila suspected her peculiar
fascination with Gypsy Dugan.

"Oh, Attila, I've read every article
Elisabeth's written for you," Missy said. "They're all completely
tasteful. What on earth could she say about this Gypsy person?"

"That's the whole point," Attila said. "The
meeting of the princess and the fifty-dollar hooker. Elisabeth's
observations will make a great story."

"Meeting?" Elisabeth said.

"Yeah, I got you an interview right
afterward. You get ten minutes alone with her, so you'll have to do
some fast talking."

Richard turned to Elisabeth. "I've met Gypsy
Dugan."

She was moving beyond surprise. "Have
you?"

"When I was in Congress. She started out as
the political reporter on one of the local affiliates, covering
events at the Capitol from time to time. Fifty-dollar hooker gives
her too much credit. Even then she had a reputation as someone who
was sleeping her way up the ladder instead of putting in her
time."

Elisabeth felt instantly defensive, but
tried to keep it from her voice. "I've seen the show. She may be
what you say, but she lights up the screen."

"You've seen the show, Bess?" Owen asked.
"You don't watch anything except the
PBS Newshour
with Jim
Lehrer."

"How would you know what I watch when you're
not at home?"

"After all these years I think I know your
tastes."

"Maybe not as well as you think."

"Mother's much earthier than you give her
credit for," Grant told his father. "I suspect she has an entire
secret life that the rest of us have never suspected."

"You make me sound far more interesting than
I am," Elisabeth said.

Marguerite's gaze flashed to Anna, who was
taking in this conversation with her lips softly parted in
disbelief. "I think there are unplumbed depths to our Elisabeth,"
Marguerite said. She looked straight at Owen. "And were I you,
Owen, renowned architect or no, this is one plumbing job I'd do
myself . . ."

"Trust me, I could discuss Elisabeth's
plumbing with the best of them," he said.

Elisabeth had seen Marguerite assessing
Anna. Elisabeth had never discussed her fears about Anna with
Marguerite, but now she knew intuitively that they were shared. The
warmth she'd begun to feel died a swift, icy death. She forced a
response. "I think I'd rather discuss this Gypsy Dugan. I have to
say the madonna-whore angle doesn't excite me."

"Princess-whore," Attila said.

"As bad. Let's not assume that because my
family's in the Blue Book I don't have all the normal instincts of
any other woman. Even a woman like Gypsy Dugan."

There was a hiccup in the conversation. "Are
we back to plumbing?" Marguerite asked when no one else spoke.

This time Elisabeth forced a smile. "No.
We're back to giving every woman her due, even a celebrity like
Gypsy Dugan. She strikes me as intelligent and witty. And the few
times I've caught the show"--she didn't even flinch at the
lie--"she's impressed me with her honesty. Maybe you need a box of
tissues when you watch, Lorraine, but it's clear that Gypsy Dugan
doesn't, and she doesn't pretend to. What you get is what you see,
and the viewers know they can trust her. I'd guess that's why she's
made it to the top."

"The top?" Missy shrieked like a Mississippi
riverboat calliope. "Elisabeth, that show can't possibly be the
top! Not tabloid trash like that. Diane Sawyer and Barbara Walters
are the top."

"The latest Q scores say that Gypsy Dugan is
one of the most recognized female newswomen in America." Attila
turned up his hands. "And it looks like Elisabeth's the only one
here who understands why."

"I know you have more than a passing
acquaintance with television news," Richard said to Elisabeth. "I
know you used to work in a television newsroom before you married
Owen. But take my word for it. We don't want to encourage these
kinds of shows or these kinds of people. This country has enough
problems with deceit and ignorance. Maybe a woman of your
background and intelligence can find something to admire about
Gypsy Dugan, but think about the average American. Is he or she
capable of sorting the truth from the rest of the trash?"

"Why Richard, how unegalitarian of you,"
Marguerite said. "I thought you were the champion of the average
American. Have you changed political parties right along with
everybody else?"

Elisabeth watched Richard's aristocratic
nostrils curl. She balanced her desire to continue the argument
with her duties as hostess. Duty won out. "I'm sure if my article
provokes even half as much interest in the subject as we've shown
tonight, the
Sentinel's
circulation will double. When is
this lecture scheduled, Attila?"

"Friday at two."

"Friday?" Owen caught Elisabeth's eye and
shook his head.

For a moment Elisabeth didn't understand.
Owen had never interfered with her freelancing before. Of course
there had never been a reason to. She had made certain to put
everything else first.

"The Caswells," he said.

Her heart sank. Lee Caswell was a North
Carolina developer who was interested in having Owen's firm design
a prestigious oceanfront complex of hotels and condominiums. He was
coming to town for negotiations, and Elisabeth had agreed to take
his wife shopping on Friday morning. They were to join the men in
the afternoon for lunch.

Owen waited expectantly. She knew what he
assumed she would do. She even opened her mouth to do it. Then she
shook her head. "I'll be there, Attila," she said. "I can change my
plans."

"You're sure? Because it's a story I don't
want to lose."

"I'm absolutely sure." Her gaze flicked back
to Owen's face. He was angry, although she doubted that anyone else
could tell. But he wasn't looking at her. He was looking at Anna,
and she at him. His expression didn't change, but his eyes said
everything. Lee Caswell was an important man. So was Owen
Whitfield.

And Elisabeth was just his wife.