A ruling passion : a novel (39 page)

"No, in Middleburg."

"Ah, then you have horses. And children?"

She smiled. "Only horses."

"And your husband— You must forgive me, I don't recall your name. There were so many people when Sybille introduced us at the cemetery..."

'Valerie SterHng."

"Sterling?" Sybille came up to them, repeating the name. "I didn't know you'd married again."

"A few months ago. Why don't you come out for a few days, Sybille? It must be hard to be here alone."

"It's terrible. I keep looking for Quentin, to tell him about something at the office or to watch a program together..." Sybille's back was to Dominus as she edged him aside, only Valerie saw his scornful look. "Come out where?"

"Middleburg. Sterling Farms. Ifs a wonderful place that Carl's father built. We have plenty of room; you could stay as long as you like." She took Sybille's hand. "Sybille, I'm so sorry about Quentin. I remember when you were married, you said he was hin to be with and he took care of you, but I think you must have been just as good for him. Do visit Carl and me; let me know when you want to come." She put down her glass. "I have to get back; we're flying to the Adiron-dacks early tomorrow morning; Carl has a sudden urge for cross-country skiing."

"Flying? You have a plane?"

"Yes. We'll be—"

"And a house there? In the mountains?"

'Tes. We'll be back in a week; I'll call you. Maybe you'll come for Christmas; we'll have a houseful—some friends of Carl's, and my mother—and we'd love to have you join us." She looked past Sybille at Dominus, who hovered where Sybille had slowly pushed him, his back against an Oriental table. "Good luck with your church. Please tell Lily I thought she was very fine today."

"I'll help you find your coat," Sybille said, and walked with Valerie toward the foyer. The rooms were heavy with the scent of huge flower arrangements, most of them ordered by Sybille from Bill Dove. A smaller one of gracefully bowed sprays of pale orchids caught Valerie's eye. "Whoever sent that understands grief," she said.

"He understands me" Sybille replied, and stopped beside the flowers. Valerie had no choice but to look more closely at them, and so she saw the card: Our sympathies; we hope to see you soon. Love, Chad and Nick.

She stood still for a moment, one finger barely touching a delicate petal, then she turned and walked on, with Sybille just behind. Sybille waited, but Valerie said nothing. In the foyer, as the attendant found her fur coat, the two women looked at each other. Sybille thought she saw a shadow of contempt in Valerie's eyes, and inwardly she brisded. Who did she think she was, coming here to lord it over the widow, with her talk of a rich husband with his own plane, and a house in the Adirondacks, and horses, and a huge spread in Middleburg... Middleburg! The town Sybille had chosen for herself.

Wherever she turned, Valerie was there, a few steps ahead. Was there anyplace in the world where she could be first, where Valerie would be consumed by en\y of her, where Valerie would suffer because of her, as she had suffered because of Valerie?

"Let me know if I can do anything," Valerie said.

Sybille nodded briefly. "Thank you for coming."

She closed the door and stood against it after Valerie left. I have to do something. Something new. I haven't gotten anywhere. Quentin didn't do anything for me; all he did was saddle me with a second-rate network and his stupid ideas about joy and upbeat programs that no one wants to watch. I'll get rid of it; sell it as fast as I can. Then I'll be free of everything and my life can really begin.

A waiter approached with a tray of drinks, and she took a cognac. He did do one thin^ for me. He left me his millions. She wondered how many, exactly. He had been secretive about that.

Her lawyer was in the living room and she went to find him. "How much did he have, Sam?" she asked as soon as she had led him to the library. "I don't know exactly."

Samuel Breeph gave her a quick look. "Why don't we wait till tomorrow, when we read the will?"

"Because I want to know now. My God, Sam, all you do is plod. I can't imagine why Quentin kept you around. I want to know how much he was worth and you'll tell me this minute or it's the last time you'll work for me or my network."

Breeph put down the plate he had been carrying when Sybille cornered him. "Quentin left you one million dollars," he said precisely, almost with pleasure. "Also your apartments here and in New York, and the Enderby Broadcast Network. Apparendy you had drained much of his money and incurred heavy debts as president of the network, but he was confident you could manage; he said you had done very well without much money before you met him. He left five million dollars to Rudy Dominus."

"Five million — '^ She stared at him. "You're crazy. It's a he."

He shook his head.

"He wouldn't do that to me." Dizzy with rage, she focused on his small, pursed mouth. "He'd never do that to me! He loved me!"

Breeph shrugged. "I don't know anything about that; he didn't mention it. I have his will, written four months ago, on his eighty-third birthday. Lily had baked him a cake. You were at a meeting, in New York, I believe."

Sybille's fingers curled like claws. "ITou fuckin£i —^^^The loud sounds of conversation in the living room recalled her, and she clamped her mouth shut. She swayed; she was dizzy and thought she was going to throw up. "Get out," she said hoarsely. "Get out of here. Get out."

He scurried from the room. As soon as the door closed behind him, Sybille crumpled to the floor, slamming her fist against the Oriental rug. "Bastard," she whispered. "After all I did for you, all the crap I took from you, letting you take credit for my successes, letting you have me, night after night, even though I hated it, usirig me... bastard, bastard, bastard..."

She lay there as the sky grew dark and, beyond the closed door, her guests, looking around for her in some conftision, finally left, followed by the caterer and his staff". Then, stiffly, she stood up in the dark room. She looked about until her glance reached the telephone. Nick would never do anything like that to me. He^d want to help me. He always

was the only one who understood me. I shouldn^t have married Quentin; Nick and I would have been back together by nave if I hadn't married Quentin.

She sat at Quentin's desk and turned on his lamp and, from memory, dialed Nick's number at home.

"Mother called," Chad said when Nick got home later that afternoon. They sat on a leather couch in the book-lined study where the day's mail was piled on Nick's desk. "She wants to talk to you. It sounded like she was crying."

"Quentin's funeral was today; she probably wants a friendly voice. I'll call after dinner. What else happened today?"

"She said he robbed her of everything."

'Who?"

"Quentin. She said he was a bastard and she shouldn't have married him and she—" He stopped.

"She what?"

"She should have stayed with you."

Nick shook his head. "It sounds like she dumped an awftil lot on you, all at once." He looked closely at Chad. "What did you think of what she said?"

There was a pause. "Nothing."

"I think you probably thought something. But we won't talk about it if you don't want to."

Chad scuffed his foot on the carpet, looking intendy at his shoe. "I thought it sounded okay. You know, then we would've been like other people and have a whole family."

Nick nodded. "And what else?"

"And I thought... well, you could still do it. If Mother wants it and... but I guess you don't."

"No," Nick said quietly. "I don't. And I don't think your mother wants it, either. I think she's feeling sad and alone, because Quentin died, but she knows we can't live together."

"But you did once and it was okay—you said you loved each other when you got married—and you could just pretend it was like it was then, and you could have another baby, and then I'd have a brother or sister, and a real mother too. And we'd all be together."

Nick put his arm along the back of the couch, behind Chad. "We might be able to do that, if we were other people." He kept his voice relaxed. Chad had never asked him about marrying Sybille again, perhaps because of Quentin, perhaps because he was afraid of a reftisal

that would crush a dream he had clutched for most of his seven years. It's time to crush it, Nick thought, then immediately thought, as he always did when he knew something would cause Chad pain, that it couid wait. Why do it now.> Let him have his dream. If it made his life easier, why destroy it?

Because, even at seven, my son will live with the truth, not a bunch of pretty lies. His mother lives with lies; he won^t.

He put his feet up on the coffee table and settled back, his arm coming down naturally to embrace Chad's shoulders. "There are a lot of differences between your mother and me, in the way we think about love and family and work, and the way we think about you. We were always different, from the time we met, but we thought that wasn't important, or maybe each of us thought we could make the other one act the way we wanted. Which is pretty silly, when you think about it; why would somebody who'd been one way for twenty-one or twenty-five years, and probably thought that was an okay way to be, suddenly switch over and be different?" He paused to let Chad think about it. "That doesn't mean that one of us has a good way to be and the other a bad way; it just means we have different ways. When we were married, it was like trying to attach one of your Lego pieces to one of your toy cars; it wouldn't work, because they aren't made to go together. They're fine when they're apart, but not when they're together."

"You could use some wire," Chad said after a moment, "and tie the Lego piece to the car."

Nick ached for his son's tenacity, and the plea in his voice. "It might work," he replied, "until the car hit some rough spots. Thafs what happens to people. They try to tie things together and sometimes it works pretty well, but when something rough happens that makes them nervous or worried or afraid, then the ties they've used tend to pull apart. It's not—"

"They could make new ones."

"They try that. But usually they pull apart, too. It's not that they aren't trying, Chad, ifs just that they have a lot of things to worry about at once, and the things that aren't good and solid from the beginning are the ones that can't weather the storms."

"What storms?"

"That's a way of saying bad times. Like arguing about things, or worrying about a job or money or whether people like your work."

"Or whether they'll buy your computers."

"You've got it. But it isn't only when there are problems, Chad; sometimes two people just can't live together, whatever happens. They

can try and try to share a life, and be kind to each other, and be happy, but they just can't do it. Your mother and I are like that. And if we can't live together in a good, happy way, if s better for all three of us if we live apart."

Chad shifted within Nick's embrace, as if struggling beneath a weight. His head was down and one hand plucked rhythmically at his pants leg. 'Tou did once," he said stubbornly.

"We tried once. We couldn't do it. We can't do everything we want, Chad, even if we try."

Chad's fingers kept plucking. "So you don't think you could do it."

"I'm sure we can't, Chad."

He looked up then, his face working, tears in his eyes. "Ever?"

"Ever."

Chad looked away, swallowing hard, and then there was a long silence. They sat together, close, touching, but separate: Nick could not enter Chad's thoughts. He let him deal with his own pain, hoping his son would come back to him if the pain grew too strong to bear alone.

"Then why don't you marry somebody else?" Chad blurted.

Caught by surprise, Nick was silent. His glance took in the room: the study he had made for himself, with leather furniture, a white Berber carpet and black walnut desk; the walls lined with oak shelves crammed with books upright and on their sides; small Giacometti sculptures on a table near the window; an early Jasper Johns painting on an easel across from his desk. It was a warm, deeply comfortable room with no trace of any presence but his own. His house, large, bright, handsome, was his and Chad's, two people in twelve rooms, leaving a lot of space for the presence of someone else. My life has a lot of space for the presence of someone else.

"I haven't found anyone I want to bring into our house and into our lives," he said at last. "When I do—"

"You go out a lot," said Chad. "Elena tells me."

"I tell you, too," Nick said a little defensively. "I don't keep secrets from you."

"You don't tell me about all of them," Chad said wisely. "I know. Sometimes you go out after I'm in bed and you come back real late. I hear you, sometimes. Is that when you ftick them?"

Nick's eyebrows shot up. "What does that mean?"

"I don't know," Chad said loudly. "The guys at school said that's what we have to do on a date when we grow up."

"What guys?"

"The eighth-grade guys. They were walking next to us in a fire drill and telling us things about being grown-up. They said it was fun."

"Growing up?"

"Fucking. Is it?"

"It can be." Nick floundered; he had no idea how to begin or how much to describe.

"Well, I won't do it till I want to," Chad said decisively. "Those guys said I had to, but they can't make me; I can do what I want."

Nick waited, but nothing more came. Not too interested, he thought. Not yet. I still have a while to think about what I'm going to tell him. "Chad, remember when I told you I wouldn't marry anyone until you knew her?" Chad nodded. "That hasn't changed. When I find somebody I want to live with, I'll bring her home and the two of you will get acquainted, and if everything seems fine that's when I'll get married again. You're right, I've gone out with a lot of women, and I'd like to be married again. But it doesn't seem to be something I can order, like a hamburger at a restaurant."

"Medium rare," said Chad. "No, rare," he added, grinning at his joke. "You could order a wife who's blond, and sort of greenish eyes, and kind of tall, but not as tall as you, and rich and beautiful and they'd serve her to you."