Stars (The Butterfly Trilogy) (62 page)

     "It got so that I couldn't wait for the week to pass in order to get the next letter. I had the feeling that you were speaking directly to me."

     "A lot of Starlite members have told me that, Senator."

     "I like the brochure you include with the new member information. You talk about yourself. It's hard to believe you once weighed sixty pounds more than you do now. But you know, it helped me to know that. For me, to be forty pounds overweight—I felt like a freak. But I couldn't help it. I was so torn up by Todd's death that I retreated into scotch and pasta. I canceled my social life, I didn't take calls from friends. I retreated to my house and drank and ate. As if that would bring Todd back."

     While he went on to describe his descent into freakishness, describing how he had wallowed in guilt and self-pity, Philippa looked at that not handsome but definitely attractive face and thought, This is not a man who wallows. A man like Paul Marquette suffers silently, gallantly, nobly. He turns a firm jaw to the world while his heart quivers and wilts away. Philippa couldn't picture him with the scotch bottle; he was not Ray Milland trudging from pawnshop to pawnshop in
Lost Weekend
, pounding on their closed doors only to discover it was a Jewish holiday and they couldn't give him money for booze. As for the food binge? Philippa pictured Paul Marquette at Dodger Stadium, his shirtsleeves rolled up, ready to throw in that first ball, laughingly accepting a mustard-slathered Dodger Dog from a freckle-faced kid. Paul Marquette ate healthily, patriotically. He did not drown himself in self-pity and gnocchi with pesto sauce.

     "I've shocked you," he said.

     "Nothing about people and food shocks me, Senator. I've heard all the stories. I've even lived a few of them myself. I once almost got on my knees to beg for a pork chop."

     "That's what makes you special," he said. "It's what makes Starlite special. The sympathy and compassion of people who have gone through the same hell. That was what gave me the strength to stay with your program. Because first you took away my shame, and then you gave me something to believe in again—myself."

     A silence settled between them then, charged with connection and, to Philippa's surprise, sexual attraction. She walked into Paul's dark eyes and felt her knees give way.

     "Then I have done my job," she said. "What you achieved was exactly what I set out to do twelve years ago. When I was growing up, I felt like an outcast because of my looks, and I know other girls were similarly unhappy. I didn't want Starlite to be just another diet program, because there is more to finding happiness and self-respect than being thin. My best friend Charmie never did lose weight, but she believes so strongly in herself that you don't notice her size."

     "Yes," he said thoughtfully.

     Philippa waited for him to say something further, and when he didn't, and she suddenly felt self-conscious beneath his probing gaze, she said, "I shall save this wine for a very special occasion, Senator."

     "Please. Call me Paul. And you must come out and visit the winery. I'll give you a tour of it myself."

     "Will I be expected to take off my shoes and stomp grapes?"

     He laughed—the deep, rich laugh of a Shakespearean actor. "It's all very scientific these days, I'm afraid, with men in white lab coats and clipboards doing the work. Very boring. The history is interesting, though. The winery was founded in 1882 by my grandfather, Françis Marquette, which makes Marquette one of the oldest wineries in California. We not only survived Prohibition, we made our greatest profits then. Not making wine, you understand, but by shipping grapes to the East Coast, where people were making wine in their bathtubs. My grandfather was very wily. He sold casks of concentrated grape juice with warnings printed on them that said 'Do not add yeast or contents will ferment.'"

     Philippa laughed.

     Marquette regarded her for another thoughtful moment, then he stood and said, "But I've taken up enough of your time. I came by to thank you for what you did for me. You saved my life. And my political career. My confidence is back, I'm going to run for the Senate in the next election. Thanks to you."

     Her eyes met his and were held, as he added, "It was a pleasure meeting you. And I do hope you will accept my offer to let me show you around the winery—soon."

A
RE YOU
C
HRISTINE
S
INGLETON
?"

     
"Yes! How did you know?"

     
"I'm your sister, Beverly Burgess. My name used to be Beverly Highland, but before that I was Rachel Dwyer. Your last name is Dwyer, too. We're twins. I've been searching for you for so long, I can't believe I've found you at last."

     
"I've been looking for you, too. Isn't this wonderful? We're together again, after all these years."

     
"But there is danger."

     
"Danger? From what?"

     
"I don't know, but I sense it...nearby. I was once involved with a terrible man, Christine, a man named Danny Mackay. He's dead, but his memory still haunts me. I have been safe, but I fear now that my past is going to meet up with me again somehow. And it will destroy both of us. You must get away, Christine. You must go far away from me and never come back."

     "
No! We've only just found each other
—"

     Beverly awoke with a start.

     As she lay in bed, listening to the silence of the Castle, she wondered why she should dream about her sister now, after all these years. Long ago, when she had still had hopes of finding her twin, Beverly had dreamed nearly every night about their reunion. But then, when the hope had faded, the dreams had gone away. Until now. Beverly was startled by the content of the dream, the realism, the intensity of its emotion.

     She got up, wrapped herself in a robe, and went to the window, from where she could just make out the snow-laden pine trees and granite boulders embracing the house; far below, dawn was breaking over the desert.

     What did it mean, the nightmare she had just had? Why should she dream about her sister now? And why, now that she was awake, did the awful feeling of dread that had gripped her in the dream continue to chill her? Knowing that she would not be able to get back to sleep, she picked up the phone, asked for room service, and ordered tea and toast to be sent up.

     As she nudged her feet into slippers and went from the bedroom into the adjoining sitting room, where she turned on lamps to chase away the nightmare's lingering gloom, Beverly briefly considered ringing Simon Jung's apartment to see if he was awake and would perhaps join her for breakfast. But she didn't, reminding herself once again that she couldn't get involved with her general manager. She didn't want to risk losing his friendship. How could she possibly tell him what she was afraid of without revealing her past? And if she did tell him, what would his reaction be? She owed him so much. She couldn't have made Star's what it was without Simon's special touch; many of the original and innovative ideas had been his, such as offering chilled towels at the swimming pool during the summer. But Simon meant more to her than that; he was more than just the man who ran her hotel.

     While she waited for breakfast to be brought up, Beverly paced the small sitting room that she had furnished comfortably with deeply buttoned upholstery and thick velvet pillows; on the walls hung tranquil country scenes. There had been a time, not long ago, when her walls had been covered with letters from famous people and framed awards and certificates, back when
she had been a Beverly Hills socialite involved in charities and fund-raising. But now her wall displays pertained to Beverly Burgess, who had been born only three and a half years ago. There wasn't much, but her most cherished memento was a framed menu from Amanha, a popular restaurant on the Rua Barão da Tôrre in Rio de Janeiro, where she had first met Simon Jung. Those few weeks in Brazil, when they had strolled along Ipanema and Copacabana beaches in the moonlight, discussing plans for her new resort, were among Beverly's most treasured memories.

     Next to the menu was a photograph of her and Simon on top of Sugar Loaf, with a breathtaking view of Rio in the background. They were smiling and relaxed, but they stood with an obvious space between them, a self-conscious posture.

     Beverly had lied to Simon. She had offered him an invented past, phony reasons for her wealth, excuses for why she had never married. But she feared now that Simon was going to find out who she really was. Otis Quinn, the tabloid journalist, was coming to Star's—tomorrow. Was he going to expose those lies? Was that going to mark the end of her relationship with Simon? Would Simon judge her before she had a chance to explain about the place called Butterfly, where women had paid for sex, and a man named Danny Mackay, whom she had driven to suicide?

     Beverly went into her private bathroom, a chamber done in black marble with gold fixtures. As she let the water run in the tub, she slipped out of the satin robe, glimpsing herself in one of the mirrors. She was still in good shape; she worked at it, being careful with exercise and what she ate. But there was a flaw: a tiny scar on the inside of her right thigh, just below her pubic hair, the only evidence of a tattoo she had had removed—the tattoo of a butterfly.

     As the steaming water filled the tub, Beverly thought again about Simon.

     Was he interested in a particular woman? She could only speculate, their private lives being something they had never discussed during their two and a half years together. Whom Simon entertained in his apartment, or whose room he visited, was none of Beverly's concern. But she had seen the way some of the female guests looked at Simon and the attention he had paid to some of them in return.

     As she dipped a tentative toe into the hot water, Beverly felt herself begin to relax. Dawn was washing over the mountain, chasing away the shadows of her nightmare. If she was threatened—if Star's was threatened—she would fight. And perhaps, she thought as she glimpsed the brand-new day outside her window, the unexpected dream about her sister was in some way a good omen. A sign that there was always a reason for hope.

     Philippa stood out on the balcony of her suite at the Marriott Desert Springs and watched the new day creep slowly across the desert. Moments ago, she had witnessed an astonishing phenomenon: just as the sun had broken behind her, Mount San Jacinto, which rose directly before her, had flared suddenly bright red, as if its slopes were on fire. It had blazed angrily for about thirty seconds, in an almost blinding crimson; in the next instant the fire had gone out and it was an ordinary snow-covered mountain again.

     The desert air was biting and cold but so transparent that it made one think that this was what the moon's atmosphere would be like, if the moon had air. Philippa felt increasingly alive with each breath she took, as if pure oxygen, refrigerated by the snowy mountains encircling the desert, were filling her lungs. Starlite might be threatened, she told herself, but she was going to face the challenge with energy and determination. Whatever strategy her unknown adversary was using—the mystery person behind Gaspar Enriques—Philippa had been developing a few secret strategies of her own.

     The first was a tactic known as a poison pill, a motion designed to render Starlite less desirable for anyone con templating a hostile takeover. Her second course of strategy, should it come to that, was to call in a white knight, someone friendly to Starlite who would buy a large block of shares, thus preventing Miranda from obtaining controlling interest. Ralph Murdock, Starlite's attorney, had three such companies lined up, just in case. Whoever was behind Enriques and Miranda was not going to get Starlite without one hell of a fight.

     She shivered inside her robe. The morning was cold, but she shivered more from the lingering effects of the strange dream she had had than from the winter temperature.

     She couldn't remember what the dream had been about, only that it had frightened her. She had awakened abruptly, her heart pounding. Her
impulse had been to leave her spacious king-sized bed and go to the other side of the suite, where Ricky slept in an identical bedroom, separated from her by a large living room, and curl up against his warmth and strength. But then she had looked over at Charmie, who was sleeping in the other king-sized bed, and she knew that it wouldn't be right. She and Ricky were no longer alone in the privacy of her Perth villa.

     Ricky came out onto the balcony then, carrying papers and a cup of coffee from the room service cart. He wore a faded T-shirt, a souvenir from when he had crewed on a replica of a seventeenth-century square-rigger; on the front was a picture of the ship,
Sea Hawk
, and on the back it said "Yard Work Doesn't Always Mean Gardening."

     "I've taken care of most of these, Philippa," he said, handing the papers to her. "But I've marked a couple that you might want to look at." He had spent the evening drive going through the faxes he had picked up from the office before they had left L.A. Mostly they were letters from people who had heard that Philippa was back in the U.S. and who had sent charity appeals, invitations to fund-raisers, requests to give speeches. The majority of the correspondence Ricky was able to handle himself. The special ones, such as the request from Oprah Winfrey for Philippa to appear on her show with Jenny Craig and Richard Simmons, Ricky marked especially for Philippa's personal consideration.