Private affairs : a novel (16 page)

"A fine partner you are," he said. "Nothing like a crazy run first thing in the morning to knock the stuffing out of an old man. I thought we shared decisions around here. Want another one?"

"No. Please. I'm sorry for the first one." He laughed and led the way to the lift, where they sat down with a sigh as the attendant steadied the moving chair behind them.

"Not bad, though," he commented. "For a couple of old newspaper folk who haven't had much playtime lately. We make quite a team."

Quite a team Elizabeth repeated it all day, as they made more easygoing descents, turning, gliding, exulting in weightlessness, side by side or one following the other through the moguls built up by skiers carving turns on the steeper slopes. They grew warm and unzipped their jackets; they rubbed suntan cream on their noses when they rode the chair; at an overlook on Copper Trail they stopped to admire Aspen and its valley, like a pastel painting far below, and in the sunlit, pine-scented air, they stood together in a long, slow kiss before going on. Some time after noon they ate outside at the Sundeck, removing their jackets, loosening their ski boots, stretching their legs, gazing in silence at the view.

"It's so perfect," Elizabeth said. "Why did we wait so long?"

"We were putting out a newspaper." Matt scraped the last bit of chicken gumbo from his bowl. "I could eat three more. But then how would I get down the mountain? How would I have the energy to make love to my wife?"

"How would you have room for dinner?"

He took her hand. "A practical woman. I love you. I want to ski some more; are you ready to go?"

They crammed years of delayed vacations into one week. In the mornings they woke early, spent the sun-filled days on the mountain, coming down in afternoon shadows to the warmth of their house, where they took steaming showers and drank cold white wine while drying each other with fluffy towels, until they could no longer hold up their heads and slipped into bed to sleep for an hour before dinner.

One night they took a taxi up Castle Creek to the ghost town of Ash= croft, where the plowed road ended and they switched to cross country skis. Beneath a three=quarter moon, they glided on a trail through mounded, unmarked snow, in and out of fantastic shadows, to the Pine Creek Cookhouse, where they were greeted by the warmth of a fat black stove, candles on checkered tableclothes, and an open kitchen with the smells of their dinner making them so ravenous they could barely wait for

the hors d'oeuvres and Hungarian red wine. And though the tiny room was full, with strangers sharing the long tables, they might have been alone, sitting across from each other beside the window, talking in low voices.

"I'm afraid to say this because I'm feeling superstitious," Matt said. "Of course I'm never superstitious, but—can I say I've never been so content, and not have it disappear in a puff of smoke?"

"It won't disappear." Elizabeth looked through the window at the rustic porch. "I won't let it."

"We won't let it," Matt said. "Because everything is exactly the way it should be."

She smiled at him, loving the way he looked, his face tanned from sun and snow, his plaid shirt collar showing above the white cableknit sweater she'd made for his birthday the year before they bought the Chieftain — the last year she'd had time to knit. She loved his smile, the warmth of his deep-set blue eyes, the memory of his hands waking her body that morning. "I feel so lazy," she said. "All I can think about is love and eating and skiing."

"What else does anyone think about in Aspen? Except, perhaps, how beautiful one's wife is." She looked so much better, he thought: relaxed and rested, instead of pale and nervous as she was at the end of every hectic week. He gazed at the delicate lines of her face, her skin glowing with color, her gray eyes flecked with green reflected from her jade angora sweater, her honey-colored hair loosely curled and falling to her shoulders, instead of tied back to be out of her way as she worked. "Beautiful and desirable," he said. "I can't get enough of you."

She nodded dreamily, remembering their day on the mountain.

"But there was a time," Matt said, "when you told me our problem was that we had no way to escape from each other."

"Oh. But that was a long time ago. We were having trouble running the paper, learning to work together. ..."

"Then you don't think about that now."

"How could I? Everything is so good now."

"I wanted to hear you say it. Crazy, isn't it? After all these years to feel as if I'm just discovering you, how much I love you and need you, and what we can be together. What did we do for the first sixteen years?"

A small shiver went through Elizabeth. "Matt, we aren't wiping out those years. We've just made some changes—"

"We've changed everything. And we've just begun. Wait until I tell you what I have in mind for next year."

"You have. The Sun."

"That's only the beginning." He saw a shadow cross her face. "But this isn't the time to talk about it. Love and eating and skiing, this week. Remember?"

He lifted her hand and kissed the palm, feeling the muscles relax be-neath his lips, knowing she was willing herself to let it go, think of it later. In a moment the shadow was gone from her face, and, holding hands, they drank their hot coffee and talked of other things.

Skiing back from the restaurant, they felt the softness of falling snow on their faces and the next morning found unbroken powder on mountain trails where their long, deep S's were the only marks on the slope as they flew down, with plumes of snow thrown up behind them like great angel wings. At noon, when the mountain grew crowded, they skied down to spend the afternoon browsing through designer boutiques, art galleries, a sculpture courtyard, a charming bookshop in a restored Victorian house that reminded Elizabeth of her parents' shop on Canyon Road, and shops along the cobblestoned mall. "Holly," Elizabeth murmured, choosing an embroidered sweater at Pitkin County Dry Goods. "Peter, Heather, Saul, my parents ... I can't believe how far away they all seem. I can't even imagine going back."

"We have three more days," said Matt. "It's too early to think about going back. Anyway, my love, this is only the beginning. We'll have other vacations. Bigger and better."

"I like this one." Elizabeth put her arm through his, tucking her hand in his pocket, and they turned to stroll back to their apartment. Looking up, they saw skiers making their last run of the day: tiny, swaying figures coming down the huge mountain. They left the shops behind, walking along the base of the mountain, then heard the high-pitched chatter of voices as the door of the Tippler swung open and shut.

"A drink?" Matt asked, and they plunged into the din of conversations in half a dozen languages. Squeezed together at a small table, they looked at the crowd. "Let's go back to Chestnut Run," Matt suggested. "I'll buy you that eight hundred dollar sweater you liked." "You're not serious," Elizabeth said. "Probably not," he said gravely. "But if anyone notices we're wearing the only fifty dollar sweaters in the place, they might ask us to leave, and I don't want you to feel deprived."

Elizabeth burst out laughing. "I can't feel deprived; I have you. And the women here couldn't care less about my sweater; they're all wonder-ing where they can find a husband like mine, and of course they can't, at any price, so they're the ones feeling deprived. Drink your wine and stop worrying. Nothing can touch us."

The most serious topic in Aspen, once the day's skiing has been exhaus-

tively discussed, is dinner. "Three more nights," Matt said as they walked back from the Tippler. "Three more restaurants. The last two are your choice; I've already arranged for tonight."

"Arranged what?"

He unlocked their door. "Your husband is treating you to dinner and a show at—" The telephone was ringing and they started; they hadn't heard a telephone for four days. Elizabeth leaped for it. "No one would call unless something was wrong at home. ..."

But the call was not from Santa Fe; it was from Houston. "Elizabeth? Keegan Rourke. It seems a lifetime since I saw you, but you do remember—?"

"Yes, of course, but . . ." Keegan Rourke? Why would Keegan Rourke, whom she had last seen at her wedding, almost eighteen years ago, be calling her, and in Aspen, of all places? Unless— "Has something happened to Tony?"

Matt was watching her with a puzzled frown. "Keegan Rourke," she said with her hand over the mouthpiece.

"Who?"

"Tony's father."

"No, my dear," Rourke was saying. "Tony is his usual self. I talked to him yesterday, in Alaska." Rourke's voice, like Tony's, was smooth and deep, hinting at sexual desire and mysterious surprises. "I'm sorry to break in on your vacation," he said. "I called Matt's office and they gave me your number. I'm coming up tomorrow for some skiing and I'd like to see you—ski together, perhaps? Definitely have dinner."

Elizabeth was silent. What is this all about?

"Elizabeth?"

"Of course we can ski together, Keegan, if you'd like. But I don't think dinner—"

"Please. As my guest. It would give me great pleasure. I've never really had a chance to talk to Matt, you know."

"What does he want?" Matt asked.

"Keegan, please wait a minute." Elizabeth covered the mouthpiece again. "He's coming to Aspen; he wants to ski with us and take us to dinner and get to know you."

Matt's eyebrows went up. "He's been struck by a sudden desire to get to know me?"

"It doesn't make sense to me, either. Shall I tell him we can't see him? I already told him we couldn't have dinner."

"That's all he said? He wants to get to know me?"

"He's not a direct person. At least he wasn't when I knew him in Los Angeles. There's no reason for us to spend an evening with him, is there?"

"Curious," Matt said thoughtfully. "How did he find us?"

"He called your office."

"My office? Not our house? Elizabeth, let's do it. Would you really mind? I'd like to know what he's up to. You wouldn't mind one dinner, would you?"

Yes, Elizabeth thought. But into the telephone she said, "Thank you, Keegan, we'll be glad to have dinner with you."

"Very good." She heard the satisfaction in his voice. "I'll call you when I get in; I may not make it early enough for skiing. In fact, let's have dinner Thursday, instead of tomorrow, in case I'm delayed. I thought we'd go to Krabloonik, if you like it."

"We've never been there."

"Then I'll help you discover it. Will you make reservations?"

"If you like. Three of us at—eight o'clock?"

"Eight o'clock is fine. But make it for four; I'm bringing a friend. I'm greatly looking forward to seeing you, my dear. My regards to your husband."

Elizabeth turned from the telephone. "I don't understand it."

"Tell me about him," said Matt. "All I know is your parents gave him a kind of second home when his wife died."

She nodded. "Tony was three; it was before I was born. I have trouble talking about Keegan; I'm embarrassed by how much I idolized him while I was growing up. He was like a king to me, rich and powerful, or at least sure of himself, especially next to my father, who seemed so helpless: hating his job, hating the smog. . . ."

"What did Keegan hate?"

"We never knew. He never let on that anything bothered him. I know Mother stopped liking him after a while; probably because she never liked devious people, and Keegan was. He did things in roundabout ways; people had to guess what he was up to; he always kept them at a distance. And I guess it bothered Mother that my father seemed . . . stuck, while Keegan was making it very big."

"Big in what?"

"Oil. Tony told me he made a fortune when he moved to Houston. I think he's worth about half a billion dollars="

"Billion?"

"That's what Tony said. He went into real estate and, I think, television stations. Tony stopped talking about him a long time ago; I didn't know they were even in touch. ..." Her voice trailed away.

Matt put his arm around her. "What's wrong, my love?"

"Oh . . . that roundabout way of his—making us guess why he wants to see you. And I don't like anybody poking into our vacation."

"He won't take much of it. Where does he want to eat?"

"Krabloonik."

"Wonderful; I've been wanting to try it. We'll allow him one dinner, and that's all. And speaking of dinner—what's wrong?"

"I just realized—we're meeting him Thursday, not tomorrow. Matt, that's our last night in Aspen; I don't want to spend it with Keegan Rourke and some woman I've never met."

"He's bringing a woman? Then he'll want to be with her as much as we want to be with each other. We'll find out what he wants, eat our dinner, and still have the night to ourselves. Now can we forget millionaire Rourke and think about the hungry Lovells? I was telling you, when we were interrupted, that we have reservations for the late seating at the Crystal Palace. And if we don't hurry, we're going to miss it."

They hurried, and arrived as the last of the waiting crowd was being seated. Their table was on the balcony of the restaurant, beside the brass railing, where they could look across the room at the tiny stage and piano below a massive tear-drop chandelier. On all sides, illuminated stained glass windows covered the walls; the large room was full and bright, the noise level high, and gradually, between their roast duck, a bottle of burgundy, and chocolate mousse, Elizabeth and Matt felt the outside world slide away. By the second song in the musical revue performed by the restaurant's waiters and waitresses—young, talented, and awesomely energetic—millionaire Rourke was forgotten.

Until the next evening, when he called from his home on Red Mountain. "Delayed by business and repairs on my plane," he told Matt, who answered the telephone. "Nicole wants to ski at Snowmass tomorrow, so we won't be together unless you want to join us."

"No," said Matt. "We'll ski here."

"Dinner, then. Elizabeth made reservations?"

"For eight o'clock."

"Excellent. I'll send my car for you at seven-thirty. It will be a pleasure to talk to you, Matt."