Stars (The Butterfly Trilogy) (67 page)

     "No decisions about children ever are," he said.

     She wanted to ask about Todd, his son. She knew he had committed suicide, but how he did it, or why, Paul had never said, and Philippa would never ask.

     "I can't thank you enough for using your influence in Washington to help me," she said. "It's so hard for single people to adopt children, even the desperately needy children, war orphans like Esther. I couldn't have done it without you."

     "In a way, then," he said, "she's ours, isn't she?"

     Philippa stared at him.

     "I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have said that."

     They continued down the hall, which somehow seemed longer than when they had come that way a few minutes before. Sounds of the party drifted up from the terrace.

     "I'm sorry," Paul said again. He stopped and faced her. "Philippa," he said, standing so close to her that she could see tiny black flecks floating in his blue eyes, "I want to hold you, make love to you. God," he said with passion, "I want to kiss you."

     Philippa suddenly knew that he was serious and that the instant he touched her they would both be lost. Quickly she conjured two vivid images
in her mind—of Francine, and of the child in the bedroom—and she said, "No, Paul. We can't."

     "Why not?"

     "Because this isn't for us. We have friendship, but whatever more we want, it wasn't meant to be. You have your life with Francine and your political dream, and I have Esther now, who's going to require all my love and attention."

     He looked anguished, but his voice was calm, measured. "Are you angry?"

     "No."

     "Will you at least tell me how you feel about me?"

     She hesitated. "No."

     "Can we still be friends?"

     "Oh yes," she said with relief. She was about to thread her arm through his, but she stopped herself. They mustn't touch again.

     "Paul, one last thing before we join the party. I was strong just now. But I won't be again. Next time—"

     "There won't be a next time, Philippa. I promise."

     And she knew it was a promise he would keep.

A
S
D
ANNY PULLED OUT OF THE DRIVEWAY OF THE
R
AINBOW
Springs Lodge and turned south on Palm Canyon Drive, he felt his fury and frustration mount. This was one more place he could cross off his list of possible hotels where Philippa might be staying.

     He had had her—last night, driving from L.A. to Palm Springs, Danny had actually had the bitch in sight, just up ahead on the freeway, skimming along in her nice safe limousine with him following close behind, entertaining himself with scenarios of the various things he was going to do to her, when all of a sudden a wall had materialized across the road, swallowing up her limousine and every other vehicle that drove through it. Danny had slammed on his brakes and only barely missed colliding with other cars before coming to rest on the shoulder of the highway, where he had stared in amazement at the sandstorm up ahead.

     After composing himself, he had started up the Jaguar and, like the other motorists, gingerly entered the sandstorm, because there was no other way
to go. It was like driving into hell—the car jerking and rattling as it was buffeted by the powerful wind, the sickening sound of grit scraping along the sleek body, sandblasting the polish right off the paint. Danny had crept along like a mole, unable to see taillights up ahead or headlights in his rear-view mirror. He had been encased in a blinding, terrifying sand cloud that had howled around him as if it carried the tormented spirits of souls who had perished in the desert.

     He had thought it would never end, that the entire world was being consumed by sand, when all of a sudden the Jaguar emerged into a crystal-clear night, where stars twinkled mockingly and motorists had pulled over to survey the damage done to their cars. But Danny didn't care about the Jaguar. He pressed his foot on the gas and took off down the highway, hoping to catch up with the white limousine.

     But she had gotten away.

     And so now he was going methodically around all the Palm Springs hotels, searching for Philippa Roberts, his fury rising with each no at each registration desk.

     There were hundreds of hotels, motels, lodges, and motor courts, and so far Danny, posing as a friendly, howdy-ma'am journalist, with his dyed hair, fake beard, horn-rimmed glasses, and press credentials, had eliminated only a fraction of them. He was going about it systematically, figuring that a woman of Beverly's wealth, tooting around in a chauffeured limousine, would only stay in three stars or above. But he also figured, knowing what a dislike she had always had for the flashy and the popular, that she would gravitate toward small, tasteful, and elegant.

     Rainbow Springs Lodge had been a perfect example, typically rich and discreet, with no hotel obviousness about it, no signs pointing to anything anywhere, just an ornate Spanish fountain burbling in the center of antique paving stones, lush foliage, and expensively kept parrots, as if it were a private residence. The sort of place where you had to be born knowing where the registration desk was, and, once you found it, where you didn't see any postcard racks or cheerful young things in hotel blazers. An assistant manager with a long nose and tall eyebrows had delivered Danny's thirty-sixth no of the day.

     Now he drove along Palm Canyon Drive, pounding his fist on the steering wheel. The bitch was somewhere in this rich desert sprawl, somewhere among these damn date palms and fountains and golf courses. But where?
Where?

     When his stomach growled, he realized it was getting late and that he hadn't eaten all day. Pulling into the first restaurant he saw—Rosarita's, a Mexican place that had the usual Spanish tile floor and uninspired cacti in large pots—Danny took a seat on the patio, where patrons were continually sprayed with a fine mist from overhead misters. There was a drought on in California, water was being rationed from Eureka to San Diego, but Palm Springs was air-conditioning its outdoors with water.

     When he ordered cheese enchiladas with a beef taco, refried beans, rice, and a beer, the waitress said, "You know, you look familiar. Do you come in here a lot?"

     Danny treated her to one of his slow, lazy smiles to hide the sudden jolt she had given him. This was the one thing he was afraid of—that, despite the glasses and the beard, his face was still too recognizable. After all, it had beamed out of forty million TV sets and graced campaign posters and political buttons. Heck, this cute young thing in the frilly uniform could have been one of his Danny Girls, an army of energetic female youth that had marched across the country, knocking on doors and handing out "Danny Mackay for President" pamphlets.

     "No," he said, looking her up and down. She wasn't bad looking, twenty or so, and she wore one of those dumb waitress uniforms that had an elasticized peasant top with a cinched-in waist and flaring skirt standing out on a dozen petticoats. "I've never been in here before, miss."

     "You have a southern accent," she said, reacting to his smile and the way he looked at her. "Where are you from?"

     "Oh, around."

     "I know I know you from somewhere," she said in a cutesy way. "Don't worry, it'll come to me."

     But Danny was worried, all through the enchiladas and taco and beans. And when she brought him a second, and then a third beer, and he saw how she studied his face, frowning in concentration as though thinking wasn't
one of her usual habits, his caution grew. What if she were to recognize him? What if she were to suddenly say, "Hey, you're Danny Mackay"? What if she didn't read newspapers or watch television news and didn't know that the man she had been going to vote for three years ago but who had dropped out of the race because of scandal was supposed to have died in jail?

     Jesus—it could be a mess. She could talk.

     And ruin his plans.

     So when she came back and asked him what he'd like for dessert, he turned on charm he usually reserved for only the classiest of women and said, "Well now, what are you offerin?"

     She met him one hour later, when she got off work. He swung by in his Jaguar and she climbed in, stiff petticoats rustling, tip money jingling in her tote bag. "Wow, what a snazzy car!" she said.

     "Where shall we go, sugar?" he asked.

     She looked at him for a minute, then cocked her head to one side, coyly. "You know, the more I look at you, the more I'm sure I know you from somewhere. It's driving me crazy!"

     "Well, why don't we go for a little ride and maybe I can jog your memory?"

     They decided to watch the sunset and headed up into the deserted foothills of the Santa Rosa Mountains, up along a dirt track, away from lights, buildings, and other people. He knew the car was turning her on, he could feel her getting all sexed up next to him. Danny had had years of experience in learning to know when a woman was ready.

     He pulled the Jaguar to a stop and they looked out over the valley below, where a few lights were starting to come on in the dusk. "Guess what I brought," she said, pulling two bottles of beer out of her tote bag.

     "Whoa, darlin'," he said when she started to open them. "Not in here! This is expensive upholstery. And it's not even four days old." He smiled and winked. "Let's get out and take in some of that fresh air."

     A strong smell of sage was carried on the breeze; when the wind changed, they could hear a family of coyotes yip-yipping in the distance. The desert below was starting to change colors; it was going to be another breathtaking sunset. Danny and the girl leaned against the warm hood of the car as they drank their beers and talked about how hard it was to get ahead in the world
these days. She was twenty and starting to get disillusioned. He told her he'd been here and there, done this and that, had a bit of luck with investments, which was how come he could afford the car.

     The sex started casually, with the tentative kissing of two strangers who are new to each other's ways. But once the heat was on, they began to work together, both being old hands at what they were up to. Danny pulled down the peasant-girl top and poured beer over her breasts and licked it off. She giggled and squirmed and thrust her hand down his pants. Danny did it to her quickly after that, because he was in a hurry. Beverly was down in that valley somewhere, and he had to find her. But this little sidetrack had been necessary. The girl was eventually going to realize who he was and tell. It wouldn't do to have people start wondering if Danny Mackay was alive after all.

     When he was done, leaving her panting across the hood of the Jaguar, her petticoats standing straight up to the sky, Danny opened the passenger door and got something out of the glove compartment.

     "Wow!" she said breathlessly, getting to her feet and looking around for her panties. "That was something!"

     She had her back to him as she searched the sand and sagebrush. "I sure wish I could remember who you remind me of—" She suddenly snapped her fingers and said, "I remember!" And just as she turned, saying, "You're just like my cousin Al in Oklahoma," she felt a sharp pain in her kidney.

     She looked down at the knife embedded in the cinched waist of her uniform. Then Danny jerked it up; she gave a cry and slumped to the ground.

     As Danny cleaned the blade on her skirt, he said, "Well, don't that beat all? Here I thought you were going to give me away, and it was only ol' Cousin Al all along. Just goes to show," he said as he got behind the wheel and started up the car, "even I can make a mistake now and then!"

     He drove off into the sunset, the rear tires raining sand and gravel over her body.

Z
OEY
L
ARSON HAS BEEN WITH US FOR OVER TWO YEARS
, D
R
. Isaacs," Simon Jung said. "In fact, it was she who set up our clinic. Miss Larson came highly recommended from a plastic surgeon in Santa Monica. She helped him set up a new office and was his scrub nurse for six years."