Stars (The Butterfly Trilogy) (66 page)

     Philippa was rich now because her company was rich. There were nearly six hundred salons around the nation, and plans to expand into Europe. Starlite also owned subsidiaries, such as Starlite Natural Beauty Products, a cosmetics division run by Charmie; Starlite Foods, which offered frozen dinners, low-calorie desserts, diet margarine, and high-fiber bread, all packaged in a familiar blue wrapper with a star logo in the corner; and, the latest addition, The Perfect Size dress shops, a chain of stores across the country that offered fashions created by Hannah Scadudo.

     "I want full-figured models," Hannah had instructed the advertising agency when the new line was launched. "Our customers want to see what the clothes are going to look like on themselves, not on a twig." Using larger-sized models in her advertising and also in the Perfect Size mail order catalogs was a revolutionary idea; Hannah believed that other manufacturers of larger-size clothing offended their clientele by modeling their fashions on skinny women, as if to say that those were the only women the clothes really looked good on. And she was right. Perfect Size fashions were catching on and starting to outstrip the established competition.

     But the biggest boost to Starlite's success was the book that Philippa had come out with four years ago.
The Starlite Diet and Beauty Program
was now in its twelfth printing and still on the paperback best-seller lists. Opening with a brief history of the program followed by the personal testimonials of a few successful graduates, the book offered the diet plan in a simple, easy-to-follow format, along with Philippa's positive thinking philosophy and a chapter each written by Hannah and Charmie: "Dressing Thin" and "The Cosmetic Connection."

     Philippa had also published a smaller book,
Hyperinsulinemia: Its Causes, Detection, and Control Through Diet
, which, while not a bestseller, continued to sell steadily to a select audience.

     And when the Starlite offices had moved to their new glass tower on Wilshire, Philippa had decided to move from her house in Encino to this mansion in Beverly Hills.

     As she left the mayor and moved on to other guests, she was joined by a breathless Charmie, who had a glass of wine in one hand and a chocolate
truffle in the other. Her dazzling gold lame caftan, with Belgian hand beading around the neckline and sleeves—one of Hannah's more breathtaking creations—shot diamondlike reflections over the flowering oleander bushes embracing this end of the pool. "The party's a big success, Philippa!" she said. "I knew you could do it!"

     Eating the truffle and then dropping the napkin onto a tray held by a passing waiter, she touched the back of her hair, which had been gathered up in a gold lame scarf, and eyed the waiter's rear end. She was thinking of Ivan Hendricks. They had invited him to the party and he had politely refused.

     "Would you look at that child of mine!" she said, spotting Nathan, now a gawky fourteen-year-old appearing ill at ease in a tuxedo that looked as if four men had had to hold him down to get him into it; he was browsing through the buffet, eating everything in his path. Charmie had feared that his childhood had left permanent scars—the brutality he had witnessed, his father's alcoholism. But Nathan was turning into a nice, intelligent boy who had recently announced his decision to be a genetic researcher when he grew up. Not a day went by in which Charmie didn't get a scare, recalling how she had rescued him, and herself, just in time.

     When she caught Philippa looking up at the third-floor bedroom window, she said, "Why don't you go up?"

     "I can't leave my guests."

     "Speaking of which, when does the star arrive?" Charmie was referring to Senator Paul Marquette.

     "Soon," she said. "He'll be here soon."

     After his visit to her office four and a half years ago, Philippa and Paul had become friends. Whenever he was in L.A., he made a point of seeing her, setting aside some of his time to have dinner and to talk. When he had reentered the senatorial race and won, he had said in his victory speech before fifty million television viewers that he owed his comeback to Starlite, specifically to Philippa Roberts.

     "Hannah said you heard from Mrs. Chadwick today," Charmie said as they climbed the stone steps toward the upper terrace, where more guests were still arriving. "How is the old girl? Has she settled in?"

     "She has her eye on every eligible male at Leisure World!"

     Mrs. Chadwick, who was in her seventies, had finally confessed to Philippa, "I'm thinking of selling the house. People don't want to live in boardinghouses anymore; they want apartments. I'd like to live near my sister and her family in Arizona." Philippa had helped her sell the old house in Hollywood and buy a new condominium in an active retirement community outside of Phoenix.

     Philippa recalled now how she had stood on the front steps of the old house and watched the blond furniture with wiry metal legs go into the back of the Salvation Army truck. She had had a sense that time was flowing past her, like a river. There goes 1957, she thought. And when the dilapidated aquamarine sofa had come out, Philippa had recalled how she had sat on that sofa and told Mrs. Chadwick all about Rhys.

     It was a lifetime ago. And she had thought: My baby would be seventeen years old now.

     "Well!" Charmie said when they reached the terrace. "Look who's finally arrived!"

     When Philippa saw Paul, her heart rose. The sudden sight of him never failed to trigger yearning. At forty-seven, Paul Marquette seemed to be at the peak of his attractiveness. He and Francine made an entrance onto the terrace as if they were French aristocrats at the court of Louis XV, acknowledging the homage from those around them. Francine, Philippa noticed, had brought her usual icy smile.

     Philippa had finally met Mrs. Marquette when she had visited the winery at Paul's invitation. They lived in a rambling Spanish hacienda, and Francine had received Philippa with practiced warmth and charm-school grace. When Francine had said, "You've done so much for my husband, Miss Roberts, none of the rest of us were able to help," Philippa had heard the distinct undercurrent of rivalry. She had wondered how the slender Francine had handled
her
grief over Todd's death. There seemed to have been no alcohol and pasta opiate for her.

     "Welcome to my home," Philippa said now, shaking their hands.

     "We're happy to be here," Paul said, while his wife smiled and nodded to others on the terrace. Francine Marquette had the unique talent of making it seem that she was the hostess, the one in charge, wherever she went, even when she was a guest at someone else's party.

     "Paul," Philippa said, "there is something I'd like to show you." She smiled graciously at Francine. "Both of you."

     "You go, Paul," Francine said. "There are some old friends here I haven't seen in a long time." Her manner was one of a woman determined to prove to those around her that she could let her husband go off with any woman and not feel threatened. She gave Philippa a brief condescending look and sailed away into the crowd.

     Once again Philippa had to struggle with a pang of jealousy. Francine was, after all, Paul's wife. while she was just a friend. A good friend, who was occasionally seen with the senator at charity benefits or gallery openings. Philippa and Paul enjoyed an aboveboard, on-the-up-and-up relationship; not even the supermarket tabloids could point a finger. She had longed to ask, during one of their light dinner conversations, what he saw in Francine. His Gallic warmth and her aristocratic coolness seemed mismatched, but perhaps Francine was warm in private.

     As they entered the house, where guests were scattered around the living room talking, Paul said, "It's good to see you again, Philippa. What a beautiful house."

     "I still can't believe it's mine!" She had her arm through his, her hand resting in the crook of his elbow. "How have you been, Paul?" she said lightly, wishing she could say something more.

     Philippa knew a lot of superficial things about Paul: where he had gone to school (UCLA and Stanford Law), what his interests were (sailing, classical music, and Florentine art), his favorite books, movies, food, and colors. But she knew nothing deeper, nothing about the secret parts of him. Whenever they attended a public event together or dined at a restaurant, Philippa would keep the conversation light and charming, while the senator entertained her with tales from Capitol Hill. They would discuss diets, the latest break throughs in nutrition—"What do you think of Pritikin?"—or world events, or even just a movie.

     Philippa had told Paul almost everything about herself, including her affair with the nihilistic Rhys. The only two facts she protected him from were the illegitimate miscarried baby of long ago and her gangster father who had ended up in the gas chamber. Philippa suspected that Paul had
cultivated something of a rosy, fresh-scrubbed image of her, the all-American girl who had made good, from Catholic boarding school to corporate headquarters. She knew that her interlude with Rhys didn't tarnish her image; in fact, it added just the right dimension to make her even more interesting, but she was careful to protect Paul from the more depressing points of her life, not for her sake, but for his.

     Philippa wished that she could tell him she was in love with him.

     But Paul Marquette had a high-profile marriage to a high-profile socialite, and he was climbing the political ladder. Paul's way to the presidency, Philippa knew, was going to be paved with Francine's charm, elegance, and connections. Francine Marquette would bring Camelot back to America.

     So Philippa's romantic feelings for Paul had to stay safely tucked away.

     As they started up the massive stairway, he said, "Have you heard anything new from your private investigator?"

     "As a matter of fact, I received the most amazing news last week."

     Ivan Hendricks had exhausted all the leads he had been following for the past few years. He had checked into nearly every female birth in Hollywood on or around Philippa's birthday in 1938. "Thirty-seven years ago," he said. "A lot of memories are shot, and a lot of people from that time aren't around anymore."

     When he was ultimately left with three leads that he had not followed up on, he had gone back and done some tracing. After finding the first two—one woman was married and living in Bakersfield, the other had relocated to Alaska—Ivan had struck gold with the third.

     This was one of the rare reports he made in person. Coming to the house and sitting out on the terrace, appearing a little discomfited by the richness of it all, Ivan had shifted his muscular bulk in the delicate white wrought-iron garden chair and said, "I was able to find out at Hollywood Presbyterian Hospital that a young woman named Naomi Dwyer gave birth to twins. It took some digging, but I finally got the name of the lawyer who handled the adoption of one of the twins. He wasn't easy to locate. Anyway, I finally located Hyman Levi and got him to tell me about it. Said the Dwyer woman kept one of the babies—didn't know where they went
after that—but that one of the babies went to a couple named Singleton for a thousand dollars."

     Philippa had been stunned. Johnny had bought her for a thousand dollars. Back in 1938 that had been a lot of money. And then: "I have a sister?"

     "A twin sister, Miss Roberts. And providing she's still alive, I think I can find her."

     As she mounted the stairway with Paul, Philippa said, "Ivan is in New Mexico right now, following up on a lead someone had given him about the Dwyers having lived there in a trailer park. Can you imagine it, Paul? A sister! A twin! And maybe my parents are still there. Maybe in a few days or a few weeks I'll be attending a family reunion in Albuquerque!"

     They turned down a carpeted hall where old paintings of hunting scenes and grapes in goblets were spaced above the Tudor wainscoting. Philippa had bought the house furnished, and it contained many curious antiques. She paused before a door and knocked before entering a bedroom that was furnished with a frilly canopied bed and white furniture with floral decals. The wallpaper featured Winnie the Pooh and his friends; the thick canary yellow carpet had toys scattered over it. A young woman in a nanny's uniform was sitting at a tiny table laying out cups and saucers and teapots. A little girl sat with her, wearing a cotton-candy pink dress and frowning over the miniature tea set. They both turned when Philippa and Paul entered.

     "Here she is, Paul," Philippa said with a smile. "This is Esther, my daughter."

     The nanny got up, a little awkwardly because her chair was so small, and took the five-year-old by the hand. "Esther," she said with a British accent, "say hello to your mummy and her guest."

     "How do you do, Esther," Paul said. "You're a very pretty little girl."

     Two large almond eyes watched him without blinking. Black hair framed a round face and long-lashed dark eyes.

     "Doesn't she smile?" he asked.

     "No, but she will."

     "Do you know anything about her?"

     Philippa shook her head. "She was rescued by an American doctor during the fall of Saigon. He found her crying over the body of a woman—her
mother, we presume. He couldn't get her to talk, so he named her for Esther in the Bible, who was also an orphan."

     "Does she speak any English?"

     "Not yet. But it has been explained to her that this is her home now and that I am her new mother. It will be difficult for both of us at first, but we'll work it out." She smiled at the little girl. "Won't we, Esther?"

     Philippa looked at Paul. "I'm going to give her all the love that I can and make her as happy as I am able. I have such beautiful memories of my adoptive father. Johnny was so good to me, so kind and loving. I'm going to do that for Esther."

     They left, quietly closing the bedroom door behind them, and Philippa said, "I'm still not sure about the nanny. I thought at first I should hire a Vietnamese to take care of Esther, because of the language barrier. But then I wondered if perhaps that might slow down her assimilation into her new life. It's not an easy decision to make."