A ruling passion : a novel (73 page)

Their eyes met, and they smiled. "I'd like a copy of that story," Valerie said.

"Sure," said Sophie. "Now for the others. Nothing crooked, I'm afraid. Vice-president: Arch Warman, president of Warman Developers and Contractors. Treasurer: Monte James, president of James Trust and Savings. They're all over the Eastern seaboard, headquartered in Baltimore."

'7ames," Valerie repeated, and wrote it down beside Warman's name. "Sophie, can we find out who holds the mortgage on the land under Graceville?"

"Maybe. Usually you can't. I'll check. Did you find out who bought it?"

"Yes, it's odd. It was sold twice. The first time, when it was all small farms, the farmers sold to a Panamanian corporation called the Beauregard Development Company."

"The what?"

"I know, it's a strange name. Beauregard bought it for thirteen million dollars—I got that from the realtor who handled the sale—but only held it for about three months. Then it was sold again, this time without a realtor, to the Hour of Grace Foundation. And, according to the realtor, there were rumors that the Foundation paid thirty million dollars for it."

"Thirty million?^^

"It's only a rumor, and it has to be wrong. No one would pay that for land that was worth thirteen only three months earlier."

"Oh, I don't know. What do religious boards know about business .>"

"This religious board has the president of a bank as its treasurer, and the president of a construction company as its vice-president, and an embezzling minister as its president."

Sophie nodded. "Not your typical religious group. Well, if they weren't stupid or naive, what were they?"

"I don't know." Valerie scribbled absentmindedly on the pad in front of her. "What's the number of James Trust and Savings in Baltimore?" she asked suddenly.

Sophie found it and gave it to her. "What are you looking for?"

"It occurred to me they might hold the mortgage; we could get the real purchase price that way."

"Not necessarily. And even if they do hold it, they won't tell you."

"Mortgage department, please," Valerie said into the telephone, and, when a loan officer answered, said, "Good afternoon, this is Valerie Sterling; I'm researching a television report on the relationship of savings-and-loan institutions to nonprofit organizations, especially in rural America." She met Sophie's wide eyes with a mischievous smile. "I understand you provided financing to the Hour of Grace Foundation to buy land near Culpeper, Virginia; could you tell me something about that?"

"It was a standard mortgage," said the loan officer. "It didn't come under the category of good works, or anything like that. The land was their collateral; it's prime land; we took no unusual risk at all."

"And the price of the land?" Valerie asked.

"We don't give out that information."

Valerie cut the call short and went back to her absentminded scrib-

bling. "The treasurer of the board gave the mortgage," she murmured. "But so what? That's not illegal." She looked at her scribbling. "Sophie. Look at this."

Sophie craned her neck to read what Valerie had written. "Arch. The vice-president. Warman. So?"

"Marrach. The last four letters are an anagram of Arch."

Sophie grabbed the pad. "And the first three are in Warman." They looked at each other. "That's no coincidence," Sophie said.

"But why do it?" Valerie asked. "Unless he wanted a separate company just to build Graceville. I don't know why he would, but that's what it looks like. So the treasurer funds it, and the vice-president builds it, and Bassington does... something. One big happy family. Interesting, but not illegal."

Sophie gathered together the papers on her desk. "Well, let's put Arch and Monte away for now and think about—"

"Wait a minute." Valerie looked at her, frowning. "What did you say?"

"I said let's put Arch and Monte away—"

'Who's Monte?"

"James. Didn't I say that?"

"Maybe you did; I guess I didn't hear it. Arch and Monte. Sophie, Fve heard that before. Somewhere. I remember thinking it sounded like a vaudeville act."

"It does. But you didn't hear it from me."

Valerie gazed unseeing at the wall of shelves piled chaotically with newspapers and magazines and annual reports. "It was in an office," she murmured. "I was standing and someone was sitting at a desk and saying something—on the telephone; she was on the telephone—saying something about a meeting." She struggled with the memory, and then she had it, all of it: part of a day she would never forget—the day Sybille fired her. She had stormed into her office to demand a different job, and Sybille had been on the telephone. / told you to schedule a board meeting for the day after tomorrow. Call Arch and Monte right now, we have to —^She had hung up when Valerie came in.

Sybille demanding a board meeting with Arch and Monte? But last November, at Graceville, she had said she only worked for the Foundation, producing Lily's show.

There's often a chasm, Nick had said, between the truth and what Sybille says. He also said, if there was corruption in the Hour of Grace ministry, Sybille might be involved.

'What is it?" Sophie asked.

Valerie told her. "There's nothing illegal about it," she said. "Though it's peculiar that she was demanding a board meeting and she's not a board member. I don't know what it means, but I think I'd better tell Nick."

He was in New York, but as soon as he returned Valerie went to his office and told him what she and Sophie had learned. It was the first time they had seen each other since their trip to Italy, so they had had no time to discover how they would now behave together. The office made them feel formal, more self-conscious than before their trip, and Nick listened to Valerie carefully, nodding, agreeing that there seemed to be much more for them to consider than they had thought, while all the time he was waiting for a chance to say what he had been thinking about the whole time in New York. He found his chance as soon as she finished telling him all she had learned. He asked her to come to dinner the next day.

"Chad will be there," he said with the brusqueness that came into his voice when he was tense or nervous. "Not for dinner, but before, so if you could come early, say about five, we'd both be very pleased."

"Who does the cooking?" Valerie asked. "You or Chad?"

"Elena," he said. "I haven't cooked much lately. But I'll cook for you, if you'll come."

"Thank you," she replied easily. "I'd like to very much."

Georgetown was cooler than most of Washington the next afternoon, a hot, humid Saturday, when Valerie arrived at Nick's house. It was larger than she had imagined, beautifiilly proportioned and cared for, its heavy front door and wooden shutters newly painted in a glossy black that contrasted with its mellow red brick exterior. The leafy arcade above the sloping street, the long row of gracefiil houses and old-fashioned streetlamps, the air of serene confidence that came with antiquity and wealth gave Valerie a stab of pain: all of it a reminder of what she had lost, and not so long ago that she could not recall ever}^ luxury, every small pleasure, every invisible comfort of that cushioned life. She had not visualized Nick in such surroundings.

Chad opened the door before she rang the bell, and Valerie, about to greet him, stopped short. She had been thinking of Nick as a student and it was as if he stood before her. Of course Chad was much younger—twelve? thirteen?—but still it was as if her memories had come to life: he was almost as tall as Nick, with the same eyes, the same shock of hair, the same wonderful mouth. His skin was darker than Nick's, and his cheekbones were sharper, but the rest was the

young, handsome, raw, eager Nick she had loved for six magic months.

"Hi," said Chad, holding out his hand. "Nice to see you again."

His grip was strong and his gaze direct, but Valerie felt she was being scrutinized with more intensity than was called for.

"If s good to be here," she said, and followed Chad into the air-conditioned coolness of the house. It was everything she had imagined: the nobility of another age when ceilings soared, moldings were intricately carved, and rooms were harmoniously proportioned, with space for a grand piano and groupings of furniture on lustrous Oriental rugs.

"Dad's in the kitchen," said Chad, adding confidingly, "which is really weird, 'cause he hasn't cooked since we moved here. I thought he'd forgotten how, but it smells okay so I guess we're safe."

Valerie smiled at the love in his voice, mixed with the attempt to seem critical and worldly wise, and she was still smiling as Chad led her into the kitchen. Nick watched her walk toward him, smiling, her beauty glowing in the sunlit room, and he went to meet her. He felt as if his body was leaning forward, ready to embrace her.

"Hello, Nick," Valerie said. She wore a peasant skirt and a white blouse with a low neck; her hair was tied back with a ribbon, leaving the beauty of her face unadorned, as if in a Renaissance painting.

"Welcome." His hands on her shoulders, he kissed her lighdy on the cheek. Valerie felt herself lean toward him, and then she thought of Sophie—... like two trees about to topple over —and consciously stood very straight. She looked around, trying to think of something to say. 'What an amazing kitchen," she said. Nick had had it remodeled as a wonder of modern technology, and she focused on a Cuisinart and a KitchenAid mixer, neither of which she had ever used, admiring their mysterious, sleek design.

"I once dreamed of a kitchen like this," Nick said, "but this is really Elena's; she helped design it. I'm just about done here; I've delegated Chad to entertain you while I finish up. There are drinks in the garden, unless it's too warm. You choose."

"I'd like to see the garden."

"Come on," said Chad. "I'll tell you what's there; I help Manuel do it."

"Who's Manuel?" Valerie asked.

"Elena's husband."

"And Elena is the cook."

"She's sort of everything. She cooks and cleans house and grocery-

shops and sews on buttons... like a mother, you know, only she isn't. Not mine, anyway. She is a mother, though; she has Angelina, that's her daughter; she's eight. Here's the garden."

He opened the door and Valerie stepped into a burst of color. A high brick wall surrounded a shaded stone terrace with padded outdoor furniture and a built-in grill, and, framing it, terraced rock gardens, a waterfall running sinuously down a slope of small boulders into a clear pool, miniature cherry and apple trees, and bonzai pines. Chad ratded off the names of flowers and bushes. "Not too shabby," he said, surveying it. "What do you think?"

"It's fantastic," Valerie said. "It's the most perfect garden I've ever seen." She knelt beside a stepped section of rosebushes heavy with blooms, and touched one of the flowers with a gende finger. "I love roses. I used to have a lot of them; I miss them more than anything else in the garden." She stood again. "You and Manuel are experts."

"He does the planning," Chad said honesdy. "I mosdy dig around. Ifs good exercise for my wrists, for my drums, you know. I guess you've seen a lot of gardens."

"Yes, I have, and this is the best. Do you play drums in a band?"

"Band and orchestra."

"Do you practice at home?"

"Sure, in my room. Dad doesn't mind; I just can't do it when he brings work home. Sometimes we play them together, though. He's pretty good at jazz."

Valerie paused, diverted by the idea of Nick as a drummer. "Is that what you want to do when you finish school?"

He shook his head. "I'll probably be a scientist. But it's fun to do now, and the more things I do the easier it'll be to get into college."

Valerie looked starded. "How old are you?"

"Twelve last March."

*Tou're not even in high school, and you're already worrying about getting into college?"

"Not really worryin£f, just, you know, thinking about it. Not a lot, ifs just that like a lot of my friends have older brothers and sisters and they're thinking about it, so we do, too, and we kind of talk about it like they do. Dad always gets on my case about it and says I shouldn't pay attention to it yet; it's like a job, he says; I wouldn't think about jobs now, they're too far away, and so is college. He says college is like a job and it's okay to prepare for it but there's a time to do it and seventh grade isn't it."

"That sounds pretty smart to me," Valerie said. He was so serious,

she thought; too serious for his age. But quick and delightful to talk to. "Last time we talked, at lunch that day, you said you liked school. Do you still?"

"Yeh, a lot. They really pile on the homework, but it's still great. This summer's great, too; I go to these art classes at the Corcoran; they have sculpture and photography and painting and everything."

"I saw one of your paintings. The bicyclists on the C&O Canal path; I thought it was wonderful."

'*You did? Really? Dad did, too, but he's not objective; you know, fathers..."

Valerie laughed. "WeU, I'm objective and I think it's wonderful. Do you take painting at school?"

*'Not now; Fve got a lot of other stuff to do. I like everything, you know, my teacher says I have to be, uh, selective, but Dad says I should do what I like and find out what I'm best at, so that's what I'm doing. And if I keep my grades up I can do all this other stuff too."

"I'll bet your grades are terrific."

'Teh, they're like mosdy A's."

"I didn't have good grades in high school," Valerie said, reflectively. "I fooled around too much."

"Fooled around? You mean, screwed around?"

"I mean a little of everything."

"No way," Chad said admiringly. "So how'd you get into college?"

"I don't know. To tell you the truth, I was pretty surprised. Maybe because I'd done a lot of that extra stuff you're doing, and I wrote a major essay with my application and maybe that counted most of all. I got really good grades in college; I guess I'd grown up a litde by then."

"The essay? That counts the most?"

"I don't know. It sure helps, though."

"Would you read mine when I get ready to write it? And tell me what you think?"