“I shall bring you up to date, if I might,” said Frederick. “As you may know, our mother, in her last will and testament, specified that no sequel to
Oh
,
Shenandoah
would be authorized until some fifty years after her death, which is —”
“Which is to say
now
,” interjected Edward.
Frederick shot him a cool glance, then turned back to me. “Sometime before her death, Mother had in fact outlined the plot for a second volume, which was —”
“Which was to be called
Sweet Land of Liberty
,” Edward broke in.
Frederick shot him another cool look. He clearly didn’t like it when Edward interrupted him. Something told me that Eddie had been doing it for sixty years. “
Which
,” Frederick went on, “she then tucked away in the safe in the library of Shenandoah, our family’s estate, where it has remained, sealed, until —”
“Until a few weeks ago,” Edward said. “When it was, at long last, opened.”
Frederick calmly pulled a slim gold cigarette case from the inside pocket of his blazer, removed a cigarette, and lit it with a gold lighter. He politely blew the smoke away from me. He blew it directly toward Edward, who scowled and waved it away, irritably.
“The safe’s opening,” Frederick continued, “took place live on national television. That Geraldo Rivera person. Perhaps Mr. Rivera is a friend of yours … ?”
I popped one of my olives in my mouth. “Not even maybe.”
“Horrible little man,” sniffed Edward.
“Garish display,” agreed Frederick. “Mave’s idea, naturally.”
“Naturally,” said Edward.
Mave was their younger sister, Mavis Glaze, the socialite who wasn’t quite so famous as their mother but who was damned close. Ever since the late seventies, when the PBS affiliate in Washington, D.C., asked her to host a little half-hour, weekly show on social graces called
Uncommon Courtesy
. Something about the stern, matronly way she said “Courtesy is most decidedly
not
common” had tickled Johnny Carson’s funny bone. He began to make her the butt of his nightly monologue jokes, and then a frequent guest on
The Tonight Show
, and before long her show had gone national and Mavis Glaze had become the Jack Lalanne of manners with a chain of more than seven hundred etiquette schools. To get Mavis Glazed was to emerge civil and poised, the perfect hostess, the perfect guest. “Civilization,” declared Mavis over and over again in her endless TV commercials, “starts here.” She ran her empire from Shenandoah, the historic 5,000-acre estate that had been in the Glaze family since the days when Virginia was the jewel of the colonies. Shenandoah was where Alma Glaze’s epic had been set. The movie had been filmed entirely on location there. Part of the time now it was open to the public, and the public came by the busload to see it. They felt a special kind of love for the place. Shenandoah was America’s ancestral home. It was even more popular with tourists than Monticello, Thomas Jefferson’s home, situated across the Shenandoah Valley outside of Charlottesville. Jefferson was only our nation’s most brilliant president. He never won an Oscar.
“Given Mave’s own prominence,” Frederick went on, “we all felt that she —”
“
We
being my brother and I,” Edward broke in, “as well as the publisher and Mave … ”
“That Mave should author the sequel.” Frederick casually brushed some cigarette ash from the sleeve of his blazer onto the sleeve of Edward’s. Edward reddened and flicked it onto the floor. “It seemed only natural,” Frederick concluded.
I nodded, wondering how long it would be before one of them had the other down on the carpet in a headlock, and which one I’d root for.
“The understanding,” explained Edward, “was that we find a professional novelist to do the actual writing. Someone gifted enough to meet Mother’s high literary standards, yet discreet enough not to divulge their association with the project.”
“Or the contents of Mother’s outline,” Frederick added. “Just exactly what happens in
Sweet Land of Liberty
is a well-kept secret, Hoagy. We’ve planned it that way to heighten reader anticipation. The tabloids would happily pay one hundred thousand dollars to steal our thunder.”
I nodded some more. It’s something I’m pretty good at.
“We all felt a novelist successful in the romance field would be most appropriate,” said Edward. “The publisher came up with a list of several.” He rattled them off. Two were million-plus sellers of historical bodice-rippers in their own right — Antonia Raven and Serendipity Vale, whose real name was Norman Pincus.
“Unfortunately,” lamented Frederick, “none of them has worked out.”
“How many have you gone through?” I asked. You can only nod for so long.
“Five of them left the project after one day,” replied Edward. “Amply compensated for their time, of course. To assure their silence.”
“Three more didn’t make it to the end of the first day,” added Frederick “Pretty surprising that any red-blooded writer would walk away,” I said, “considering how much money is involved.”
“They didn’t walk, sir,” said Edward. “They ran.”
“Mavis,” explained Frederick, choosing his words carefully, “is, well,
Mavis
. She’s … She can be, perhaps, a bit … high-strung. Demanding. Magisterial … ”
“She makes Nancy Reagan look like Little Red Riding Hood,” Edward blurted out.
“A prize bitch,” acknowledged Frederick. “But she’s our baby sister and we love her.”
Edward nodded emphatically. At least they agreed on that. “Sounds like what you need,” I suggested, “is someone who’s used to being screamed at. Why don’t you ask around up at Yankee Stadium?”
“What we need,” said Edward, “is someone who can retain the flavor and spirit of
Oh
,
Shenandoah
. Otherwise, Mother’s fans will be terribly disappointed. Unfortunately, Mave has, well, some ideas of her own. Ideas that are nowhere indicated in any of Mother’s notes, though she insists they are indeed Mother’s very own.” He glanced uneasily over at Frederick, colored slightly, and lowered his voice. “Ideas she says Mother has personally communicated to her. While she sleeps. In her dreams.”
I tugged at my ear. “What kind of ideas are we talking about?”
“Queer ones,” Edward replied gravely. “Very, very queer.”
“According to the terms of our contract with the publisher,” said Frederick, “the estate has final say on the contents of the manuscript. We insisted upon it. If Mavis gets her way, Hoagy, and she always does, I have no doubt that the publication of
Sweet Land of Liberty
will rank as one of the greatest embarrassments in the history of American publishing. Not to mention a major financial disaster.”
“You’re her brothers,” I said. “Won’t she listen to you?”
“Mavis doesn’t have to listen to us if she doesn’t choose to,” replied Edward. “And she generally doesn’t choose to. You see, Hoagy, Mother believed in a system of matriarchy. We three children took her family name, Glaze, not father’s, which was Blackwell. And when she died, she left Shenandoah and the entirety of her fortune to Mave and Mave alone. Frederick and I merely serve her in an advisory capacity. I happen to practice law. Frederick is an investment counselor. Protecting the financial and legal interests of Shenandoah and Mavis does occupy much of our time, and Mave does pay us quite generously for it. But it is she who has final say in all estate matters.”
“And when she dies,” added Frederick, “Shenandoah will pass on to her own first daughter, Mercy. Mave’s husband, Richard, the gallant Lord Lonsdale, gets nothing.”
“What does he do with himself?” I asked.
“Come when Mavis calls him,” Frederick replied drily. “Tail wagging.”
“Do they have any other children?”
“Just Mercy.”
“And you gentlemen?”
“We are both bachelors,” Edward said. “Without issue.”
I drained my martini. Another appeared at my elbow instantly. “Sounds like one big unhappy family.”
“Just like any other,” agreed Edward pleasantly.
“Does your publisher know what’s going on?”
“Only that we’re having a bit of trouble finding a writer,” replied Edward. “Not why. They are, however, getting nervous about our deadline. They expected the book to be well under way by now. They impressed upon us yesterday the amount of pressure they are under. Huge sums of money have been committed. The paperback publisher is waiting impatiently in line, as is the movie studio.”
“They recommended you,” said Frederick. “As a sort of specialist.”
“I suppose that’s one word for what I am.”
“They said there isn’t a celebrity alive, including Mavis, who you can’t lick.”
Edward shuddered. “What a horrible image, Frederick.”
Frederick stared at him a moment. Then turned back to me. “You’re our last and best hope, Hoagy. We’re desperate. Will you fly down to Shenandoah and talk to Mavis?”
I sat back in my chair. “I should warn you there aren’t many people who are good at what I’m good at. It’s a rare talent. In fact, I’m the only one who has it.”
“Not exactly bashful, are you, sir?” said Edward stiffly.
“You want bashful, get J. D. Salinger. He’ll cost you a lot less money than I will.”
“Certainly we can hammer something out,” Frederick ventured. “We’re all reasonable men, aren’t we?”
“You might be. I’m not.”
Frederick cleared his throat. “Frankly, money happens to be the least of our worries right now. Get Mave to stop communicating with the dead. Deliver a novel that Alma Glaze would have been proud to put her name on. Do that and we’ll meet your price, no matter how unreasonable. Satisfied?”
“Every once in a while, if I try real hard.” I sipped my martini. “Okay, we’ll fly down there.”
“Excellent,” exclaimed Frederick, pleased.
Edward frowned. “By ‘we’ I trust you’re not referring to Lulu here.”
A low moan came out from under the table. I asked her to let me handle it.
“I am,” I replied. “I tend to do most of the heavy lifting, but we always work together. We’re a team.”
Edward smiled. “Like Lunt and Fontanne?”
“I was thinking more of Abbott and Costello.”
“I understand,” said Frederick, “but there is the matter of the Shenandoah peacocks. Our trademark. They’ve lived on the north lawn for more than two hundred years. Their wings are clipped to keep them from flying away or —”
“Or crapping on anyone’s head,” Edward broke in.
Frederick lit another cigarette and blew the smoke Edward’s way. Those boys were at it again. “That makes them exceedingly vulnerable to predators — dogs, cats, raccoons, foxes. The grounds are kept carefully guarded, and no animal of any kind, no matter how well trained, is ever allowed on the property. I’m sure you can appreciate that.”
“Gentlemen, the sole predatory act of Lulu’s life was a growling contest she got into in Riverside Park with a eight-month-old Pomeranian named Mr. Fuzzball. She needed eighteen stitches when it was all over.”
They mulled this over a moment, lips pursed. They looked at each other. A silent message passed between them. “We have your word, as a gentleman, that she’ll not harm the peacocks?” asked Edward.
“You have my word, as a gentleman, that she’ll be deathly afraid of them.”
“Very well,” said Frederick reluctantly. “We’ll finesse Mavis on this particular point. Just try to keep Lulu under cover, if you can.”
“That’s no problem. In a rainhat and sunglasses she easily passes for Judd Hirsch. When do we leave?”
W
E LEFT EARLY THE
next week. I had stuff I had to do first. It was nearly April. My Borsalino was due for its 30,000-mile overhaul at Worth and Worth. I had to take the wool liner out of my trench coat and put my winter clothes in storage and fill the prescription for Lulu’s allergy medicine. I had to read the damned book, all 1,032 pages of it.
Partly,
Oh
,
Shenandoah
was the story of how the American Revolution shattered forever the privileged lives of colonial Virginia’s landed British gentry. But mostly it was a love triangle, heavy on the violins. Flaming-haired Evangeline Grace, the beautiful, headstrong young daughter of a wealthy tobacco planter, was torn by her love for two men. John Raymond, handsome son of the colonial governor in Williamsburg, was a brilliant law student, a sensitive poet, a budding statesman. The other, a dashing, hot-blooded Frenchman named Guy De Cheverier, was a fearless adventurer, a ruthless brigand reviled by polite society. It was their story. It was the story of the great Virginia plantations — of colorful horse races and grand balls, of velvet waistcoats and powdered wigs, and smiling, happy slaves. And it was the story of the Revolution. De Cheverier would become a daring war hero who time and again led his brave, loyal men into victorious battle against the Redcoats. Raymond would break with his English father to become an architect of the Revolution at the side of his William and Mary law classmate Tom Jefferson. Real figures from American history were sprinkled throughout the novel — George Washington, Benjamin Franklin, James Monroe, James Madison. Alma Glaze did her homework. She drew her portrait of Shenandoah Valley plantation life from local historical records and supposedly, her own family’s illustrious past. Still, it was the love triangle, the battle between Raymond and De Cheverier for Vangie’s hand that carried the reader’s interest across so many pages. Which one would she marry? In the end, she couldn’t decide, and since neither was willing to bow out gracefully, the two of them fought a duel for her hand, Vangie to marry the winner. Who won? Alma Glaze never told us. All she left us with was that famous closing line: “As one man fell, Evangeline stepped forward, eyes abrim, breast heaving, to embrace both the victor and the new life that surely promised to be her grandest adventure.” For fifty years, readers had been arguing over what the hell that meant. That’s why there was so much interest in the sequel.
Naturally, it’s hard to read it nowadays without seeing the faces of the actors who played the roles in the lavish Sam Goldwyn production, the only movie in Hollywood history ever to sweep Best Picture, Best Director (William Wyler), Best Screenplay (Robert Sherwood), as well as Best Actor and Actress. Warner Brothers loaned Goldwyn Errol Flynn to play De Cheverier. For the coveted roles of Evangeline Grace and John Raymond, Goldwyn cast the gifted young British stage performers Sterling Sloan and Laurel Barrett, who also happened to be husband and wife in so-called real life. Neither had appeared in an American film before. Sloan was fresh off his acclaimed Hamlet in London’s West End and bing touted as the new Olivier. The fragile, achingly beautiful Barrett, the woman who beat out every top actress in Hollywood to play Vangie, was a complete unknown. Both won Oscars for
Oh
,
Shenandoah
. Sloan’s, of course, was awarded posthumously. He dropped dead of a ruptured brain aneurysm only hours after wrapping the film on location in Virginia. His death at age thirty-two destroyed Barrett. She suffered a nervous breakdown soon afterward. She was in and out of institutions for depression right up until she died in 1965 at the age of fifty-two, her life made, and seemingly unmade, by her
Oh
,
Shenandoah
triumph. She wasn’t alone in that.