Private affairs : a novel (32 page)

"Writers are impartial observers."

"Be impartial later. Can't you think about them instead of yourself? You'll get your story. I'll take notes for you, if you want, while you talk to them."

He looked curiously at her. "Do they mean so much to you?"

"They're my friends. And you don't like to see anyone get hurt any more than I do."

He nodded thoughtfully. "Elizabeth, people who are having marriage problems tend to throw themselves into other people's battles. Be careful."

"You don't know anything about my marriage, Saul."

"Bullshit. It's all over your face. Look, I'm not telling you to turn your back on your friends; I'm just saying you might think about saving some of your energy for your own problems. Friendly advice; that's all it is."

He went inside. Slowly, Elizabeth followed. Holly and Peter were already there, with Maya, Luz, and Cesar; Isabel stood at the pulpit. Wearing a long, blue denim skirt and a white blouse with a drawstring at the low neckline, her hair in a thick braid, she looked almost formal: a strong woman with a magnetic smile, regal posture, and powerful voice. She waited for everyone to find places. Sunlight came faintly through dusty windows; the wooden pews were thick with dust that flew up when people whipped bandanas and handkerchiefs about before they sat down. Elizabeth counted eighty people and others were still coming in as Isabel began to talk.

"We took a poll. Three-fourths of the farmers and ranchers have sold their land; none of us in the town have sold; we don't know who owns this church or the land under it. We don't know what's going on in the state legislature. Some of you still own your land, others have leases, but now there's this business of a dam—a possible dam—which would flood part of the valley. Now I'm not ready to lie down and let somebody pour a million gallons of water, or more, over my house and land, but I'm not even sure who I should be mad at. We have a friend here who knows more about it"—she held out her hand to Saul—"and I'd like to introduce him. Saul Milgrim, the man who runs the Santa Fe Chieftain,"

Saul glanced at Elizabeth. "Runs it?"

"Let them believe it," she said in a low voice. "It's mostly the truth, isn't it?"

He smiled and touched her hand, then walked up to the pulpit. "I really don't know much more than you do," he told the intent faces looking up at him. "I tried to get some information yesterday, but nobody's around the statehouse on Saturday. My suggestion, for what it's worth, is that you hold your anger until you know your opponent, and what's being proposed for the valley. I think you should send someone to testify at the hearings this week, with copies of your leases and a statement on the hardships you'll suffer if you have to leave: what you'd have to pay for new land and houses, the cost of moving your stock, and so on. At the very least, you should ask for time; this has been sprung on you and you deserve a chance to find out what's going on so you can respond intelligently and share in the final decision. If you need help finding information, I'll do what I can." He looked about. 'That's all I can say right now."

"No answers," grunted Cesar.

"Sure, it's an answer," said Isabel. Standing, she sent her voice ringing through the church. "I nominate Cesar Aragon to go to Santa Fe and fight anyone who means to flood our valley."

Cesar shook his head. "I already said no; I'm too old to deal with these things. Isabel should go."

"Nominate her," Elizabeth whispered to him.

He leaped to his feet. "I nominate Isabel Aragon to go to Santa Fe and fight any bastards who mean to flood our valley!"

All the women shouted, "Yes!" They glared at the men and the men nodded. "Is it a vote?" Isabel asked.

"Unanimous," Saul said. "You're their leader."

"Well, then." Isabel looked at her neighbors. "I don't have any idea what I'll do there, but I promise to do it very forcefully."

Someone applauded; others picked it up. The sound echoed through the church like a hailstorm. Isabel looked at Elizabeth and laughed. "I could get to like this," she said.

Elizabeth laughed with her, but her eyes were thoughtful. Then Peter leaned over. "Can I go to the hearing? Maya wants to go, too."

"I think you both should be in school," Elizabeth said. "I'll tell you everything that happens. And Saul will write about it."

At the end of the row, Luz whispered to Holly, "I wish Mom would be quiet. If they flood the place, we'd get out with a pile of money. Why can't she just let it happen? Nobody cares about an old valley; money's a lot more important,"

"Hush," said Holly. "Someone will hear you."

But no one was listening; they were leaving the church, talking among themselves. Elizabeth waited for Saul and they walked out together. "It's too bad you didn't have anything definite for them," she said.

He shook his head. "Damnedest thing. Everything is under wraps. Whoever Ballenger and the others are, they've got clout."

"We'll meet them at the hearings."

"I can't wait."

On the drive back to Santa Fe, everyone was quiet. Once Holly said, "I keep seeing all the houses and farms at the bottom of a lake. ..."

"Like ghosts," Peter said moodily. "Rooms full of water, things floating around. ..."

Holly shivered. "It's awful. Our land, too, that Mother just bought. . . ."

They were silent again until Saul stopped in front of their house. "See you Wednesday at the statehouse," he told Elizabeth. But her attention was on their front door. Saul followed her gaze through the gate in the adobe wall; so did Holly and Peter.

"Tony!" Holly cried ecstatically, and leaped from the car to dash up the driveway. Peter followed more slowly.

Saul turned to Elizabeth. "A pleasant surprise?"

"A complicated one." She got out of the car and leaned down to kiss Saul's cheek. "Thank you for driving. I'll see you Wednesday."

Tony was contemplating Holly's radiant face as she told him about her audition. "I'll have you on my show yet," Elizabeth heard him say as she approached. He moved toward her. "Dear Elizabeth, how wonderful to see you again."

His look was open and admiring, as innocent as a boy's. Smoothly handsome, silver-haired, dark-eyed, he wore a sheepskin jacket over a dark turtleneck shirt: the image of a star, Elizabeth thought. But she felt a rush of pleasure at the look in his eyes, and she suddenly realized that, except for Saul, she hadn't spent time with a man since Matt's last visit, two weekends ago—and even then he'd worked for hours at the Chieftain, making phone calls and dictating letters.

"You'll stay for dinner," she said.

"I was hoping I could take you somewhere. It's been so long since we stepped out together."

"I'd like that." Elizabeth looked at Holly and Peter. "You two have homework, don't you?"

"You know we do," Holly said angrily.

"What's your problem?" Peter asked.

"Nothing." Looking at the ground, Holly said to Elizabeth, "I'm sorry. I guess I . . . I'd rather go out than do homework."

"It's all right, love," Elizabeth said gently. "I'm sorry I made you feel left out. There's paella in the refrigerator—"

"We'll be okay," Peter said. He was frowning, trying to figure out his sister.

"I'll have to shower and change," Elizabeth told Tony.

"Then Holly and Peter will keep me entertained," he said, and she went to her bedroom, leaving the three of them in the kitchen. When she returned, Peter was slicing tomatoes, Tony was drinking Scotch, and Holly was answering his question about the paella.

"Chicken, sausage, shrimp, clams, rice, saffron, tomatoes, onions, chiles . . . You could stay for dinner; there's plenty here."

"Not this time." Tony looked up as Elizabeth came in, and drew in his breath. She had changed from jeans and a khaki shirt to a handwoven dress of white wool and a necklace of thin discs of petrified wood polished until they shone like agate. Her hair framed her face in long waves of golden bronze; her eyes were a smoky gray in the light from the kitchen chandelier. "An elegant lady," Tony said. "Is Rancho Encantado all right? I made reservations."

She hesitated briefly; it was a place she and Matt especially liked. But after all, it was only a restaurant. "Fine," she said, and kissed Holly and Peter goodbye. "I won't be late. If anyone calls ..." She paused.

"Yes?" asked Holly shrewdly.

"Just say I'll be back about ten. Have a good dinner, you two."

As the front door closed, Peter said to Holly, "What do you think?"

"About what?"

"About Mom and Tony. I was wondering if we should call Dad and tell him."

"There's nothing to tell!" Holly said and burst into tears.

"What's yom problem?" Peter demanded.

"Nothing!" In a moment, she wiped her eyes and sniffed. "Why aren't you setting the table? You never do any work around here!"

"Jee-sus," Peter muttered, and pulled plates and glasses from the hutch beside the table. He began to sing one of Holly's songs, every note flat, humming where he forgot the words.

"Okay," Holly said, laughing as she wiped her eyes again. "You convinced me; it's better to talk than listen to you sing. Thanks," she added, putting the paella on the table. "I'm fine now. I guess I was just upset . . . flooding Nuevo, and everything. ..."

"Sure," said Peter. He heaped his plate. "Well, here we are, the Lovell family. Shrunk but hardy." He lifted his glass of soda. "Cheers."

Tony took Elizabeth's hand and kissed the palm. "I've missed you. As usual."

She moved her hand to pick up her water glass. "Are you on your way to or from Los Angeles?"

"To. I've been in Houston."

She looked up quickly. "Did you see Matt?"

"Last night. He was at my father's house for dinner. A busy man, Matt. Meeting politicians, buying newspapers, writing editorials . . . And very good at everything he does. My father thinks the world of him."

And that bothers you, Elizabeth thought. You and Keegan haven't gotten along for years, but still you'd like him to think the world of you, not Matt.

But now she knew why Tony had come to Santa Fe: he knew Matt was spending weekends in Houston.

"He'll be here next weekend," she said. "And we're moving to Houston in June, after Peter graduates."

"Are you indeed." He opened the menu. "What's good here?"

"Everything."

When they had given their order, Tony talked about Los Angeles, his show, his travels. "I've taped interviews in the most god-awful places. Do you have any idea how hot it gets sitting next to a Sphinx? Can you imagine how frigid it gets in Quebec in February? Then there was the submarine off the coast of someplace, where I got claustrophobia and in order to finish interviewing the actor playing the captain of that submerged coffin I had to pour five martinis down my throat so I could believe I was really home in bed, dreaming the whole hideous experience. . . ."

Elizabeth laughed. Then, curious, she said, "You never talk about the people you interview."

"You know, it's odd, but I hardly remember them; they're a blur, all talking about the same things: sex and money. Making it big in films or Broadway or clothes design or condominiums—whatever it is, it's always the same. Money and sex. Money, success, and sex. Did you ever notice how alike 'sex' and 'success' sound? Try saying sex-success ten times, fast. You laugh. But most of the celebrities I interview say it twenty or a hundred times, very fast, and very successfully. Sex-cessfully. There. I put them together like the good celebrity I am."

She smiled. "I've noticed they interest you, too."

"They do; I admit it. However"—his face turned melancholy—"I have success but very little sex-cess these days." He waited. "You don't ask why. I'll tell you anyway. Because only one woman appeals to me. I wander around my lonely house looking for her. 'Elizabeth,' I call softly, and she doesn't come, so I raise my voice. 'Elizabeth, come here!' I demand, but still she is nowhere to be seen, so I shout—"

"You don't, but it makes a touching story. I thought you'd outgrown your dramatics."

"Most of the time. You bring out the best in me. Which reminds me, I do enjoy your columns; I look forward to them. You get better and better."

"I like that. It means more to me than all your dramatics."

"I don't use dramatics; I tell the truth. Sometimes, when I'm especially lonely in that Malibu mausoleum, I take your columns from my bedside table and pretend you're lying beside me—"

"That's enough, Tony."

He spread out his hands. "As you wish. I do think of you; ask any of my lady friends who wonder about the photograph next to my bed."

She laughed in relief. "Much better. I was afraid you'd become a monk."

"Therapy, dear Elizabeth; a man needs comfort." He pondered the plate that had been put before him. "Everything in that house is new; I couldn't stand being alone and shabby at the same time. But in my villa at Amalfi everything is antique, faintly moldy, glowing eerily with furniture polish. Like an aunt you'd thought was dead for years who suddenly shows up with a face lift."

Elizabeth laughed again. "But you're not alone in Los Angeles and you're not alone in Italy, either."

"True," he admitted. "I can't endure it. The echo of my voice and footsteps ... I feel empty. Invisible."

"So the rest of us are your mirrors, making you feel real."

He gave her an admiring look. "That's very clever. You could do a story on it: people who feel real only when they're reflected in other people's eyes."

"Do you want me to do a story on you?"

"You can't. I'm too famous for your 'Private Affairs.' "

"I'm afraid you are. But if I ever expand to famous people who feel invisible, you'll be the first."

"I don't feel invisible with you. I feel potent and powerful."

"Potent?"

"Because I make you laugh."

"And that's why you like to be with me," Elizabeth said. "Every man wants to feel potent."

"I like to be with you because you are bewitching and beautiful and full of life. You make jaded television stars feel young."

"You're not jaded; you're just tired from chasing will o' the wisps."