Stars (The Butterfly Trilogy) (57 page)

     It was funny; Star's was both quiet and noisy at the same time. She couldn't quite figure it out; there were a lot of guests milling about, browsing in the boutiques, speculating on who killed Ramsey, or sipping hot drinks beside the fire, but the atmosphere was subdued; the quiet hustle and bustle of the genteel rich. It made her think of the one time she and Jake had stayed at the Plaza in New York. The Palm Court was like this—crowded, busy,
but strangely muted. And here at Star's there was a kind of magic in the atmosphere, something vaguely seductive, so that Frieda had found herself inquiring if she could keep the cabin a little longer when she had had no intention of staying another day. So now here she was—sitting in a thirties hunting lodge with antlers over the fireplace and sheepskin rugs on the floor and real log walls that were polished smooth and shiny, a lodge that Marion Star had built for her more outdoorsy guests, and where it was said Douglas Fairbanks had once stayed—and Frieda was depressed.

     It had broken her heart to see Bunny's newly beautiful face go from joy, to shock, and finally to tears as Frieda had explained the purpose of her visit. Bunny had carried on so, she had looked at one point as if she wanted to rip all that new beauty out and make herself unappealing again. Frieda had tried to console her, but what could she say? That now that Bunny looked like dozens of other young women in the movies she was no longer unique; that now she was
really
going to have a hard time getting parts, because her competition had just multiplied by thousands?

     Going to the window and looking out again, Frieda wondered if she should pay Bunny a visit. But there was nothing left to say. Bunny was miserable because her surprise for Frieda hadn't panned out and because she had botched the juicy deal with Syd Stern. But also because her father was coming in two days to take her home, and she was terrified about what his reaction to her new look was going to be.

     "Frieda," she had cried, "all my life I've never been able to please him, he's always looked at me with such disappointment. I thought that by being beautiful he would finally appreciate me! But what if he looks at me the same way
you
do and thinks that I look just like every other actress in Hollywood!"

     Frieda hadn't known how to answer that. Because it was true; Bunny was now a Hollywood clone.

     When she saw how shadows were starting to stretch over the ground as the day died, Frieda's thoughts shifted to the coming evening. What was she going to do for dinner? Call room service? The thought of eating alone in this cabin didn't appeal to her. She could try Bunny, but Bunny had insisted she wanted to be alone. There were, of course, the three dining rooms in the Castle...

     The Castle. Where beautiful people seemed to glide beneath the sparkle of the chandeliers, and among them...

     Good heavens. Where had
that
thought come from!

     Frieda pictured him again, the young olive-skinned man in the tuxedo, and the way he had smiled at her that morning, the same way he had smiled at her twice before. When she thought of him now, recalling those big brown eyes like chocolates, she got that squirmy, high school feeling deep down inside again. It made her laugh. Fifty-three-year-old lantern-jawed, hard-nosed female agents did not delude themselves into thinking they could possibly get it on with twenty-five-year-old sinfully handsome males who looked like South America's answer to George Raft.

     
Unless, of course, the young man was paid to do it.

     Her heart skipped a beat and suddenly she was nervous. Because suddenly she realized what she was going to do.

     "I don't believe this," she murmured as she picked up the phone and dialed the main dining room, the one with the forest green carpet and deep booths and a pianist who played only Chopin and Mozart. The dining room where there were no prices on the menu.

     "Hello?" she said. "This is Frieda Goldman. I'm staying in room—"

     "Yes, madam," came the cultured man's voice. "I have your room number. How may I be of service to you?"

     How did they do that, know a caller's room number? "I would like to make a dinner reservation for myself for tonight, eight o'clock?"

     "Certainly, madam."

     "But I...uh, have a slight problem." She couldn't believe it. She was actually going to do it. "I don't like to dine alone. I was wondering if possibly..."

     "Certainly, madam. I will see if there is another guest who also—"

     "Actually," she said, squeezing the phone so tightly that she felt her pulse throb in her fingertips. This was ridiculous. The whole thing about escorts—it wasn't true. "I didn't want to dine with another guest." She took a breath. "Oh well, never mind..."

     "I understand, madam. The hotel can provide a dinner companion for you, if you would like."

     She held her breath. My God. "Yes, okay...um, that would be fine."

     "Would madam prefer a gentleman?"

     She frowned. As opposed to what? A slob? And then she realized he was referring to gender. "A gentleman will be fine," she said, and she quickly hung up, thinking, Frieda Goldman, you
can't
be serious!

     Judith Isaacs delivered herself into the warmth of the lobby where the doormen and coat-check girls greeted her with the familiarity of fellow employees, even though this was only her third evening here. As she passed the glittering sign announcing the Christmas ball, which was being held the day after tomorrow—after which Mr. Smith was leaving Star's—she saw Simon Jung beside one of the large fireplaces, deep in conversation with Robert De Niro. How long was it going to take, Judith wondered, before she got used to the sight of celebrities?

     When she arrived at the clinic on the second floor, shedding her down jacket and shaking out her long braid, she overheard Zoey on the phone in the substerile room. "Yes, Miss Kowalski," the nurse was saying. "I'll be there right away. Don't worry."

     Seeing Judith suddenly appear in the doorway, Zoey's smile evaporated and she hung up.

     "Did anything come up while I was out?" Judith asked, feeling daggers of resentment fly from the nurse's eyes. Earlier, Judith had asked Zoey if she knew anything about the tabloid story of Mr. Smith and his secret operation. "I know gossip sheets like that pay a lot of money for sensational stories about movie stars," she had said, watching Zoey's reaction.

     The nurse had gotten defensive. "What are you asking me for?"

     "Because very few people in the hotel know he's here. And even fewer know what he's here for."

     "The leak could have come from Dr. Newton's office," Zoey said, pushing a lock of hair out of her face.

     But Judith had already thought of that and had gotten hold of Dr. Newton in Palm Springs. He had been in a rage, having just seen the tabloid himself, shouting at Judith that neither he nor his staff had leaked the story. In twenty-nine years of treating celebrities, this was the first time anything like this had happened. "It came from
your
end, Doctor," he had said, almost
implying Judith's involvement, even though she hadn't been employed at Star's at the time the tabloid received the story.

     The subject had been dropped, but the glacial atmosphere had worsened between Judith and her nurse. They hadn't spoken all afternoon, even while splinting a fractured ankle and wrapping it in a plaster cast. Now Zoey said, "You had a phone call," and nothing more.

     Judith was suddenly alert. Had
he
called again? "Who was it?"

     She shrugged. "He didn't leave his name," Zoey said, watching Judith's face.

     "I'm sure whoever it was will try again," Judith said, sounding as unconcerned as she could, and she started to leave. But when she saw Zoey open the medication Gupboard and remove a bottle of Valium, she said, "What are you doing with those?"

     "Bunny Kowalski called. She's very upset about something. She can't sleep. She wants something to calm her down, so I'm going to take her a few of these."

     "I don't recall there being any orders in her chart for Valium."

     "There aren't."

     Judith stared at Zoey. She noticed that the collar of her nursing uniform bore a brown iron-shaped scorch mark. "Are you telling me," she said slowly, "that you prescribe meds to patients?"

     "Hell," Zoey shrugged, "it's only Valium."

     "Since when have you been licensed to prescribe drugs?"

     Zoey looked up at the ceiling, as if she were dealing with a three-year-old. "Dr. Isaacs," she said with a show of forced patience, "I have been handing meds out for two years. I'm really more than a nurse here, I'm more like a physician's assistant. I mean, the doctor can't always be here, can he?" She challenged Judith with a blunt stare. "I mean,
she.
"

     "You are a registered nurse, Miss Larson. You dispense medication upon a physician's orders. You are not legally permitted to prescribe them."

     "I told you, I've been doing it for two years. Dr. Mitgang—"

     "I don't care what Dr. Mitgang did." Judith held out her hand.

     Zoey's look turned volatile as she slapped the bottle into Judith's hand and stormed out.

     "By the way," Judith said, and Zoey paused in the doorway. "Mr. Smith's lawyer is putting together a very good case against that tabloid. And he is
going to demand a large sum in damages. I have an idea they're going to cooperate and divulge the source of their story."

     Zoey remained there for a moment, and then she left.

     As Judith picked up Bunny's chart and dialed the room number, Zoey had to stop in the tiny corridor outside the substerile room to collect herself.

     What right had that bitch to talk to her that way? This clinic was hers; Zoey had set it up before Simon Jung had even hired a doctor, and she had run it for two years with no complaints from anyone. And no one, not even a doctor—especially a doctor from some mountain town who was running away from something—was going to tell Zoey what to do. In fact, she was going to be sorry she had tried.

     Frieda entered the dining room as if it were a combat zone, looking this way and that, ready to dodge bullets. Did absolutely every single person in this room know what she was up to? The maître d' approached and said, "May I help you, madam?"

     "Frieda Goldman," she said, looking around at the glittering chandeliers and intimate booths, thinking she hadn't been this nervous since her first dance at Sequoia Junior High School when she had hoped Marvin Pormor-sky would ask her to dance.

     The maître d' led her to a corner booth, where a young man in a tuxedo immediately stood up. Frieda couldn't believe it. It was him, from the lobby.

     They engaged in small talk. His name was Raoul, he said. No last name.

     "You have an accent," Frieda said, wondering what to do with her hands. It had been so many years since she had had a date. After all, this was no business meal, no "Let's take a meeting," no "Let's do lunch." She was here for one reason only. And so was he.

     "I'm from Cuba." He flashed her a very white smile. "But I'm one of the good Cubans."

     God, but he was gorgeous.

     Frieda was starting to feel something she hadn't felt in years. And she also thought the dining room was warmer than it needed to be. And hadn't the noise level just gone up? No, she realized. It was her. All of her senses were suddenly heightened: the lights seemed too bright, the pianist played a polonaise too loudly, and the smell of food...

     The people in the next booth had ordered Chateaubriand, which was being prepared for them table-side, with three waiters serving: one to carve the pink, tender meat; another to arrange creamy mashed potatoes in an artful circle around each plate; the third stirring an aromatic sauce over a little blue flame. The waiters worked as if they had been choreographed, depositing crispy thin cheese bread and silver bowls of steaming buttered vegetables on the table with a flourish, as if their act were half the deliciousness of the banquet.

     Frieda looked away. While Raoul was telling her a little of the history of Star's—"It stood unoccupied for over fifty years, completely furnished"—Frieda found herself thinking of people back at home: Sandy, her housekeeper, begrudgingly taking care of Frieda's three fussy little American Eskimo dogs; her secretary, Ethel with the adenoids, constantly sniffing as if in perpetual disapproval; Frieda's daughter, the environmentalist snob; and three-year-old Princess, the biological phenomenon of the age. And suddenly she imagined them all standing in the doorway of the dining room, staring at her and Raoul, their mouths frozen into shocked little "Ohs."

     "I'm sorry," she said abruptly, reaching for her purse. "I just realized that I'm not hungry after all. I don't know what I'm doing here."

     "Is there something wrong?"

     "I...I've received some very disappointing news today, and I don't really know why I stayed on at Star's. I should have checked out and just gone home. I'm sorry to have taken up your time, but I just don't want to...this isn't a good..." She stood up. "I'll just go back to my cabin if you don't mind."

     "I understand," he said, also rising. "Perhaps you would like me to walk you back? The pathways can get very icy at night, very slippery."

     She stared at him. He had misread her signals.

     Her astonishment grew. No, he had correctly read her signals. She just hadn't known she was sending them. "Thank you," she said. "I would appreciate an escort."

     He took care of everything, explaining to the mâitre d' that they had changed their mind about dinner, retrieving her mink coat and helping her into it, supporting her elbow as they went down the icy steps. Frieda had
forgotten what it was like to have such male attention, to be so taken care of, to be made to feel so womanly.

     Raoul had put on a long black overcoat that made him look so thoroughly elegant that other women stared at him, and it gave Frieda a greedy feeling. She wanted to say, "He's mine."