A ruling passion : a novel (45 page)

Nick saw her lawyer's lips tighten and he guessed the lawyer had told Sybille not to try that ploy. But she hadn't been able to help herself, and Nick knew why: her debts at EBN were at least a hundred and ninety million. When she paid them off, she would have, from Quentin and the sale of EBN, about ten million dollars. That would satisfy most people, Nick thought; but not Sybille. "When you're

ready to talk about my offer as it stands—two hundred million for the network, clear of debt, exclusive of your production company and its assets, which you keep—I might still be interested. Though the more I think about it, the more curious I am about other networks that might be for sale. Chad and I have a whole country to choose from; it doesn't have to be Washington. My plane is at three tomorrow afternoon."

"God damn it—!" Sybille cried, but he had closed the door behind him. The next morning, her lawyer called with her acceptance. "I deserve better than you," she told him, tight-lipped, when they met again. "I always knew you were mean and stingy and self-centered, but I never realized you were vicious too."

"I'll buy you a drink," Nick said, thinking of Chad. He took Sybille to the Fairfax Piano Bar and they sat for two hours, talking about Washington, about Sybille's riding and hunting, and her production company. They avoided other subjects, letting the music fill the silences between them. And when he took her back to the Watergate, they seemed to be friends. "Fm glad you're in television," Sybille told him as they said good night. "It's something for us to share, besides Chad."

After that, though she called him regularly, he saw her only once, when she and Chad went to dinner early one evening, and that was when he thought she seemed oddly smaller, almost meek. When he canceled the game shows she produced that had been airing on EBN, she tried only briefly to convince him to change his mind. And when he canceled "The Flour of Grace," she said only that he was making a mistake: Lily Grace was a sensation and soon would be one of the biggest names in television.

"He's not important," Sybille told Lily the evening after Nick canceled her show. "He has nothing to offer us; he doesn't know the first thing about television. He'll be bankrupt in six months. I'll have you appearing all over the country before he figures out how to put a schedule together. Try on another dress."

Lily turned to the pile of white dresses on the bed. It was her bed, and they were in her room in Sybille's apartment, the prettiest, largest room she had ever had. Even though she had been there for quite a while, she hadn't gotten used to the silk sheets and the deep carpet that curled luxuriously around her bare toes, and the bathroom, with its huge tub and separate shower with sprays on all sides that made her feel shivery and almost embarrassed. The room was so wonderful she didn't mind when Sybille sometimes asked her to stay in it while she

entertained, the way she had done at Christmas when her son and his father were there. "I like to pretend we're still a family," Sybille had said with a small, sad smile, and Lily had understood completely, and had stayed behind her closed door until they were gone.

But that almost never happened. Most of the time Sybille was so pleased to have company in the big apartment that she demanded Lily's presence whenever she was there. And then she would bring surprises home, like the pile of dresses that lay on Lily's bed. "Try them on," she said, spreading them out. "Whatever we both like, we'll keep."

Lily watched herself in the full-length mirror as she put on one after the other. "Not the cotton," Sybille said. "It's wrong for you. Try the silk."

Lily took off the cotton dress. "Rudy said I should wear bright colors to attract more attention."

"He was wrong." Sybille watched her slip a silk dress over her head. "Much better; the other one made you look like a nurse."

Lily smiled. "What does this one make me look like?"

"A virgin." And something else, Sybille thought; something elusive. A girl who was almost a woman, a fantasy that was remote but still somehow attainable. Impatiendy, she shrugged it off: she didn't like to waste time trying to figure people out. "A virgin," she repeated. 'Tou're perfect."

"Perfect for what?" Lily asked.

Sybille did not answer. "Now give me one of your sermons."

"Again? Sybille, we've done it over and over for two months, ever since I went on the air, and all the mail we get... people say they like me... don't you think I'm all right, the way I preach now?"

"Of course you're all right; you're a sensation and you know it. But getting people excited on Nick's second-rate network is one thing; doing it in the whole country is something else. I want to make a new tape tomorrow and send it to some people I know; I'm going to offer you the same way I offer the other shows I'm producing."

"No!" Lily cried instinctively.

"You're nothing like them, of course," Sybille said careftiUy. "You have a style and a message all your own. But we have to get television producers to understand that, and most of them aren't smart enough to do it on their own. It's not easy to get them to look at a tape, Lily, much less buy a program or schedule one. I don't expect them to spend their money to buy The Hour of Grace,' but I do want them to give us a regular time slot."

"But why wouldn't they? They must want people to watch their stations, and if we tell them how much mail I get, they'll give us the time."

"They can't run commercials during a religious broadcast, so they have to sell the time itself. Most television preachers buy time on one network or another. But it's a huge expense and ifs not necessary. If I'm right about you, I can get stations to give me an hour a week, maybe two, if not now, a year from now. It's just a question of making them want you so much they'll give me the hour before I take you to their competition. But I've got to be sure you're perfect; otherwise they'll give a quick look at yor tape and toss it. Go ahead."

"If you think it's so important..." Self-consciously, Lily began to preach, standing amid the dresses and shoes. Bur in a minute her self-consciousness disappeared; she was lost in her words, in her belief in her message. "And there is another person within each of you," she said, "and you can reach—"

"Wait. Repeat that."

"Repeat what?" Lily said, blinking as if waking up.

"'Another person within each of you.' Say it twice, to emphasize it. Or better yet, can you find a couple of ways to say it? I don't want anyone to miss it. It's the main idea, isn't it?"

"Well... one of diem."

"Try it again."

Lily closed her eyes. "... another person within each of you, a person you want to be—"

"How about 'dreamed of being'?"

"Oh. Yes. I like that. Another person within each of you, a person you want to be... no, a person you've always wanted to be, a person you've dreamed of being. You may have thought it was impossible to be that person: good and kind and loving, a person who can do anything, a person who has confidence in you, who admires and believes in you. We always want others to believe in us, but—"

"Not 'we,'" SybiUe interrupted. "You're not one of them; you're above them—"

"Oh, no, Sybille, I'm not above anyone."

"Separate, then. You're the one who's doing the talking; you're bringing them new ways to think about themselves. You musm't sound as if you're as confused and needy as they are. I've told you that before, Lily; I don't know why you can't understand it."

"Because I want to be one of them."

"No, you don't. If you were, you'd be sitting on a couch, turning

on The Hour of Grace.' You can't tell me you wouldn't rather be Lily Grace, preaching to people."

Slowly, Lily nodded. "Yes, but that still doesn't make me above them, better than—"

"Separate," Sybille said again, holding in her impatience.

Lily thought about it, then took a breath and went on with her sermon. "You've always wanted others to admire you and believe in you, but, more important, you should—"

"'More important, most important, the most important of all,'" Sybille said. "Rhythm, Lily, cadence: that was one thing Rudy did well."

"Yes. I remember. Well... More important, most important, the most important of all is for you to believe in yourself And you can, you can, because you are good, you are special, you can trust yourself to be whatever you have dreamed of being—"

"Love," said Sybille. "Push love. And you ought to get God in earlier."

"Do I really need to do all that.>" Lily asked worriedly. "I have to say it the way I feel it, you know."

'Tes, of course. I'd never try to change what you say: I'm so moved by you, Lily. But I want to make sure everyone is as moved as I am; I want them to be excited, mesmerized, crying with joy, like those people in that church in Hackensack. Television is different, Lily—how many times have I told you that?—you have to punch your words to make them stand out; you have to be sharp and clear or you'll never seem real or important to all those people in their living rooms. They look at their screen and they see a flat little image, not a flesh-and-blood person. MiUions of people want to believe in you, but they can't unless you help them."

"Millions," Lily breathed. She looked at her hands clasped loosely in front of her. "To do so much good, all at once..." Her eyes closed and her high, sweet voice took on a lilting rhythm. "Love is within you, so much love, the love you give to God and the love you give to those whose lives touch yours. You may be afraid that you can never love as much as you want to love, as you dream of loving, because the pain and hardship of life interferes, but you can, you can love, you can love £freatly, because you are a person oigoodness who has more love to £iive than you have ever imagined. And as you £iive love, you will receive it. Others are waitin£f to love you, to help you, to lift you up so you will not be alone ever again. Once you unlock the chains that imprison the good, lovin£f person within you, others will gather around; they, too, will find the ^foodness within themselves; they, too, will believe in them-

selves, and together all of you will discover how much you are, how much you can he, how much you can do, now that—"

"Good," SybiUe said.

Lily's eyes flew open. "I forgot you were here."

Sybille did not believe her, but it didn't matter; if Lily believed it, her preaching would be better. "Just one thing," she said. "Talk about yourself as often as you can. Listen to me; Fm here to help you. Believe me when I tell you... That sort of thing. We don't want those millions of people to think they can do it alone, without you. And then there's the money." Lily frowned. "Now listen careftiUy. You know we can't do anything without support from your audience—"

"Congregation," Lily said gently. "Fve asked you—^"

"All right, your congregation is going to want to support you. They know you can't produce shows—"

"ReUgious hours."

"You can't produce reUgious hours without money; everyone knows that. They know you have to live on something besides love; and they'll want you to have the money to build your cathedral."

Lily's head came up. "Cathedral?"

"The Cathedral of Joy. You don't think I'd let you preach for very long in a television studio with folding chairs for your aud—congregation, do you? You can't stay in a place built for Rudy Dominus; you need much more. You need grandeur, Lily; you have a message and a delivery and an image that can sweep this country. I want to build you a cathedral where a thousand people at once can hear you, and millions more can see you on television."

Stunned, L-ily sat on a hassock. M thousand.. . When did you... how long have you been thinking about this?"

"Since we began 'The Hour of Grace.' You were right: the mail is fantastic. And most of it includes money. Small amounts, but you hadn't asked for anything. From now on, as part of each sermon, you'll tell your congregation about the Cathedral of Joy; about the—"

"Where would it be?"

"I've been looking at land near the mountains, around Culpeper."

"Culpeper?"

"Virginia. I wanted it near the horse farm I just bought, in Lees-burg, but there's not enough land around there for the cathedral and some other ideas I have. Culpeper's less than fifty miles south, with much more land."

"What other ideas?" Lily asked. "We mustn't get too grand, Sybille;

I think maybe the cathedral is too much. All I need is a simple place, a small, plain church "

"We're not going after anything small and plain," Sybille said flady. "It doesn't interest me, and it shouldn't interest you."

"Why.> What I have to say isn't very complicated."

"I thought you liked the idea of reaching millions of people."

"Yes," Lily said, as if embarrassed at her own ambition. "Yes, I do like it."

"Then we'll need a cathedral. And about ten million dollars to build it."

Lily stared at her. "Thafs impossible. We couldn't ever get that much."

"We'll get it. It's not a fortune; it's only a beginning. There's so much good you can do, Lily, so many people you can help. I've never felt this excitement before: we'll make people happy, and make a better world. But all that takes money."

"I just don't understand very much about money," said Lily sadly.

"It doesn't matter; I do," Sybille said easily. "That's one of the reasons we make a good team. Now, we'll keep these five dresses, and the one you've got on. These six we'll return. And, Lily, I'm giving you a key to the apartment; you don't have to depend on me so much anymore. After all, we have our own activities."

Lily looked conftised. 'Tou're going away? Or you don't want me bothering you? Did I do something wrong?"

"No, of course not, I'm not going anywhere, and you don't bother me. But if I'm working late or you want to go somewhere by yourself, you should be able to. We'll still be living together, and I expect you to tell me what you do with your free time and who you meet and want to see again, but I need—each of us needs a little space. And as a preacher you know better than anyone how important space is: your own time for solitude and reflection..."