Private affairs : a novel (57 page)

His undemanding chatter always got her past the moments when the past crept in, and Elizabeth was smiling as she opened the box and took out a wide gold bracelet. "Oh, Tony, it's beautiful. Did you find it here?"

"I found it at Fred Joaillier on Rodeo Drive. Two months ago. You turned it down."

"But I've never even seen— Oh. Just before your party."

"I told you, if you recall, that I'd keep it until you no longer want to be clever with me."

Elizabeth held the bracelet to the light; it gleamed in her hand. Matt had given her a Zuni necklace of coral and silver, in Aspen. And pearls for her forty-second birthday, on the night of Keegan's party in his honor. And what was he buying now, for Nicole?

"I don't feel very clever," she murmured.

"Good," Tony said, misunderstanding her. "Three weeks in Europe changes one's perspective on everything. Will you wear it?"

"Of course," she said, and slipped it on her wrist, thinking how strange it was that after years of hearing her say no, Tony seemed not at all surprised to hear her, suddenly, and often, say yes.

But it came to her when they were in Amalfi that Tony almost never seemed surprised; he masked it, as he did most of his emotions. He allowed only declarations of love and adoration, and an occasional flare of anger at Bo—but did anyone know how deeply he really felt those?—and kept the rest of himself hidden.

But for three weeks he had tried to please her, and on their first morning in Amalfi she thought there was nothing else she could ask of him; it was more important than all his declarations of eternal love. They were sitting at breakfast on the terrace of his villa, drinking espresso and eating soft, ripe melons. Elizabeth sat back, taking deep breaths of the cool early morning air that smelled faintly of the sea, and delighting in the view of the town above and below the terrace, unlike any she had ever seen.

Pure white houses, tall and narrow, with symmetrical narrow windows, climbed steeply from the brilliant blue Bay of Amalfi to craggy cliffs high above, topped by crumbling spires and monasteries abandoned five hundred years earlier. Below, in narrow streets, townspeople shopped, gossiped, played chess, put to sea in fishing boats, gathered firewood, cooked, baked, cleaned. The town was slow and easygoing, a little drowsy, even in the morning, suspended above the sea in mellow sunlight, fragrant with lemon and olive groves, vineyards, and tumbling sprays of bougainvillea covering rocks and garden walls in vivid purple.

Why was Tony here? Elizabeth wondered. Of all the resorts on the Italian coastline, Amalfi was the one place ignored by the international set. There were no three-star restaurants or boutiques, no glistening white beach or yachts or sailboats, no local branch of a New York or London stockbroker. There was only the quiet town—as simple and off the beaten path as Nuevo, Elizabeth thought whimsically—with a rocky strip along the shore of the bay where the still, clear water was disturbed only by local fishing tugs and a few boys from town, windsurfing. Yet Tony had

bought, and lavishly rebuilt, a house high up the hill, expanding it to an airy, three-level villa far different from its neighbors.

"Why do you like it here?" Elizabeth asked him. "You like nightclubs and restaurants and parties. The most exciting activity in Amalfi is watching the windsurfers."

"The most exciting activity is being in bed with you." He paused. "I'll tell you why I like Amalfi. It's quiet and uncomplicated, it's completely different from Los Angeles, and not a soul here has ever heard of me." He paused again and gave a small smile. "I don't have to watch myself every minute to make sure I'm acting like Tony Rourke."

"Acting."

"Being 'on.' A personality. A star."

"Can you really tell when you're not?" she asked.

"Can't you?" he countered. When she hesitated, he brushed her cheek with the back of his hand. "You are so lovely. Believe in me, Elizabeth. I often tell you the truth. I told you the truth about why I'm in Amalfi."

"I believe that," she said. For once he didn't want to talk about himself, so she said, "But you didn't mention its beauty."

Tony shrugged. "The world is full of beauty; it all looks the same to me. I'm satisfied to have you; your beauty is special."

"You don't 'have' me, Tony," Elizabeth said quietly.

He sighed and stood up. "Come for a drive with me. We'll go to Ravello and eat ice cream and pretend we're in love. Can you do that?"

"Pretend?" She shook her head. "You don't want me to."

"The hell I don't."

"Well it doesn't matter. Tony, we're having a wonderful time; don't spoil it."

"You said that in Malibu, the day you refused my bracelet."

"Yes, I remember."

"But you're wearing the bracelet."

She gave him a quick look. "It's not a dog collar, Tony. I can't wear it if that's how you think of it."

"I don't . . . Elizabeth, listen to me. I love you. How many times in my life do you think I've said those words?"

"Five or six hundred."

"Oh, Christ, you're not taking me seriously. I've only said it and meant it once. You're the only woman I have ever loved. I love you. I need you. I want to marry you. You make every day bright and the nights even brighter—"

"Wait, Tony. You've already used that line."

"What does that mean?"

"In Paris you said I make your days bright and your nights even brighter."

He flung out a hand. "I'm not a writer; forgive me if I sometimes say the same thing twice. If you'd think kindly of me, you'd realize it means I feel something so deeply I repeat it."

It might be true, she thought. It might also be true that she would never know, for sure. "You're right; I'm not being very nice. I'm sorry, Tony; I believe you."

"Then you might answer me."

"No, Tony."

"You won't marry me?"

"I'm already married. Tony, this is too dramatic for me. I like it when we're good friends and have a good time and give each other pleasure."

"I want more than that, and people do get divorced these days."

"But I'm not. Matt hasn't asked for a divorce; neither have I."

"Why not?"

Elizabeth left the table and stood looking over the edge of the terrace at the smooth water of the bay. "I suppose because we're both concentrating on being very successful—and waiting to see what happens next."

"But you're not still in love with him. Elizabeth, I've made love to you for three weeks; you can't tell me you haven't been falling in love with me."

Below them, a man in a small tug cast a fishing net in a graceful arc over the water. Elizabeth watched it sink without a trace.

Watching her, Tony said, "You are still in love with him."

"I don't know." She turned and ran her hand over his silver hair, smoothing the frown between his eyes. "I've had the most wonderful three weeks, Tony; we work so well together, and enjoy each other, and need each other. Can't that be enough?"

"Do I have a choice?" He stopped her hand and held it. "Best friends. Just as we have been. Unless. . . . Listen, my sweet, you may not realize it, but Europe makes everything different. It's like a bottle of wine; it lowers people's resistance. That's why I was so anxious to bring you here. What if you change when we get back?"

She smiled. "It wasn't Europe, Tony; I wanted to make love to you. I suppose the trip made it easier, but I'd already made up my mind." She paused. "You see, the change came before I ever got here." She walked across the terrace to a steep stairway that descended to the road. "Shall we take that drive?"

"What a good idea." He followed her down the steps and when they were in the small Alfa Romeo he kept at the villa, he leaned over and

kissed her. "Don't worry about anything, my sweet. Just stay close to me and everything will be fine."

She sat back as Tony followed the signs for Salerno, climbing the twisting Corniche until they were high above the sea. He drove easily, almost carelessly, on the narrow road that made hairpin turns, plunged in and out of natural rock tunnels, clung to the rims of spectacular gorges, and cut through steep rock, allowing a brief view of the sea, like a picture framed by cliffs.

Elizabeth held her breath, almost standing on her right foot, as if she were instinctively putting on the brake. "Sit back, dearest Elizabeth," Tony said with a sidelong smile. "I am not going to endanger your life, or mine. We're both far too precious to me."

Elizabeth laughed and began again to enjoy the startling scenery all along the coast, most of it as wild and precarious as if it had just been created, untouched, unreachable, unchangeable. When they reached the small town of Ravello, human touches appeared: masses of hydrangeas and tea roses, their scent so keen Elizabeth could taste it, and small houses clinging to the cliffs. Tony stopped the car in the center of the town, and when they stepped out she slipped off her jacket and half-closed her eyes against the blazing sun. She felt as if she floated at the top of the world.

In the sparkling air, cooler than in Amalfi, they turned in place to look around the square at the Villa Rufolo, famous for its guests—"I've taped interviews there," Tony said—the ancient cathedral, the gardens, and the outdoor cafes and shops. Perched on top of the ridge of mountains along the coast, Ravello was completely at peace. A small cloud drifted lazily across the limpid sky; its shadow followed it on the ground, passing over Elizabeth and Tony and then out to sea. "Hazelnut ice cream," Tony said. "And then a cameo for you if I can find the little man who makes them."

They sat in the small cafe, savoring pale, silken ice cream. Tomorrow they would fly home, with enough interviews for two months and enough notes for Elizabeth to write still more columns and some magazine articles. The sun lay heavy and golden upon them, the air was fragrant with flowers and lemon trees, Tony's hand was upon hers. What more could she want? What more could anyone want?

"Elizabeth," Tony said. He raised her hand and kissed her palm, slowly, caressing it with the tip of his tongue, sending small shocks of desire through her. "Tell me you'll think about marrying me. Just think about it. I don't ask anything more than that and I'll never push you for an answer."

Elizabeth lay her other hand along his cheek, beside his dark eyes, sincere, unwavering, intent on hers.

"All right, Tony/' she said. "I'll think about it."

He pulled his chair to hers and pulled her to him, kissing her. "Dearest Elizabeth, dearest partner, I adore you, I admire you, I desire you, I am yours. Command me: anything you want. From now on you have but to speak. A safari in Africa, the Tsar's jewels in the Kremlin, the perfume of Arabia . . . what can I place at your feet? Where would it please you to go?"

"Across the square," Elizabeth laughed. "I'd like to see the garden behind the hotel and look down at the Bay of Salerno."

"A cheap date," he said, shaking his head. "I hope you'll demand more in the future." Arm in arm, they walked across the plaza. Tony's step was light—because of her, Elizabeth thought. And why not believe it? Why not believe everything he said?

Every day, every night, he made her feel like a young woman caught up in the beginnings of desire; he surrounded her with people who praised her; he made her the center of attention. And he was helping her become more successful than she had ever dreamed—more than most people ever dreamed—by giving her a place, every week, on television.

She probably never would know for sure whether he was acting or not, but why not believe the best, the most comforting, the most loving? Why not relax in his embrace and let his words flow over her like warm, perfumed oils that made her feel adored, desired, needed? Why not? It would make them both happy.

And wasn't that what they both wanted? Just to be happy?

Keegan Rourke's house sat near the top of Red Mountain, catching the last rays of sun that had long since left Aspen in shadow. The angled window walls of the two-story living room met in a point, like the prow of a glass ship and through them Matt watched the last few skiers coming down the mountain across the valley: diehards braving the December cold that plunged to near zero once the sun left the slopes. He sat in a deep chair of royal blue Egyptian cotton, one of several groups of chairs and couches in hunter's green, burnt orange, and blue, arranged throughout the room, each group surrounding a table of petrified wood polished to a marble gloss. Matt stretched his legs, relaxing after six hours of hard skiing. It was his first vacation since his last time in Aspen. March, he thought. Over a year and a half ago. Involuntarily, he looked across the valley again, this time at the Aspen Alps condominium complex, and the

corner apartment where he and Elizabeth had stayed for a week, ending with dinner at Krabloonick with Rourke. And Nicole.

"Matt, darling." Nicole said from the doorway, "do you mind a cocktail party before Mort and Lita Heller's dinner party 0 "

"Where?" he asked absently.

"The Formans*. You haven't met them. They have a house in Starwood."

"Whatever you want. But if I drink too much. I won't be interesting to ski with tomorrow."

"You are always interesting. Matt. Maybe not always fast, but always interesting."

He chuckled, watching her walk away. She wore a black satin caftan slit to the thigh, and his gaze stayed with her as she went through the study to their bedroom, an enormous room with a stepped-down sitting area facing the same view as the living room and a king-size bed on a raised platform with pushbutton controls for lights and appliances throughout the house. A few minutes later he followed her and went into his bath-and-dressing room: Nicole was in hers, on the other side of the bedroom. "Who are the Formans 0 " he called across the empty room.

"They own a baseball team and some race horses in Kentucky, and a racetrack. They've got some dispute with a congressman over racetrack revenues; they're trying to force him out of office. They're not wonderful —he's rather a boor and she's boring—but they might be useful to you."

"I have nothing to do with Kentucky."