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“You spend the night in my arms then walk out as cool as you please to a date with your ex? Oops, I forgot, you’re still married to the man. Perhaps you never meant to leave him? I can assure you that from where I was standing the two of you looked awfully cozy.”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“I happened to walk into the Palace Hotel at lunchtime today. Unless I’m much mistaken, you were on a sofa by the window of the lounge smiling at someone who was kissing your hand. You didn’t seem too upset about it.”
She drew back, shocked at just how angry he was. “Harlan came here to try and persuade me to return to Savannah—he’s worried that my absence makes him look bad. I told him that wasn’t an option right now. We had lunch and now he’s leaving again.”
“Do I look stupid, I wonder?” Johnny asked conversationally, hands stuffed in the pockets of his corduroys.
“No, you look jealous,” she retorted, matching his tone. “And with no reason to be.”
“Jealous? Ha! That’s a good one. Why on earth would I be jealous? After all, we’re just having a holiday fling, aren’t we?”
“Yes. I suppose we are,” she replied quietly, looking him straight in the eyes.
“If that’s what you really feel, then I agree wholeheartedly,” he responded stiffly.
Also by FIONA HOOD-STEWART
SILENT WISHES
THE LOST DREAMS
THE STOLEN YEARS
THE JOURNEY HOME
Look for the latest novel by
FIONA HOOD-STEWART
SAVANNAH SECRETS
Southern Belle
Fiona Hood-Stewart
www.mirabooks.co.uk
To Carter Parsley,
the other Southern Belle
With love
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many thanks to all those who have helped me while writing this book. To Remer and Susan Lane, Howard and Mary Morrison, Remer and Christina Lane and Fran Garfunkel of Savannah, Georgia, for their generous hospitality and helpful input. To Bill Riley for the reference to the Samovar, which he told me over dinner at a castle in Switzerland, and last but not least to those whom I share my life with and who patiently bear with my writing every day: John, Sergio and Diego. As always my thanks to my editor Miranda Stecyk and the team: Dianne Moggy, Amy Moore-Benson and Donna Hayes.
Contents
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Part II
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Part III
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Part IV
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Epilogue
Part I
1
The much awaited rain—the rain everyone had been praying for, because the drought had been so bad—poured heavily down in doleful drops, battering the roof, dripping from the tiles and the gutters, past the windows of the wide, netted porch, before streaming relentlessly onto the grass. Within a few hours the yellowing lawn was nothing but a broad, soggy puddle stretching down to the Ogeechee River, giving the plantation’s freshly planted gardens an abandoned, almost forlorn look.
Curled in the rocker in the enclosed section of the porch that had once served as the nursery, Elm MacBride stared blindly out the window, her fingers tweaking the tiny red shutters of the well-worn dollhouse that dated back to the turn of the century. Only a week earlier she’d sat in this very spot, begging for rain. Old Ely—whose great-granddaddy was the trusted slave who’d helped her ancestors save the Hathaway family fortunes by stashing gold in the plantation’s well—had talked about it day after day for a month, how the land was too dry, how the garden so desperately needed it. Yet now, as she stared at the rivulets tracing irregular patterns down the windowpanes, her mind overflowing with the bewildering events of the past few days, the rain seemed strangely irrelevant.
What did seem relevant was just how blind she’d been—how profoundly dim-witted and completely oblivious to the affair her husband had apparently carried on right under her nose. She shifted restlessly, still trying to assimilate Harlan’s betrayal—and the fact that he’d had the gall and total lack of sensitivity to drag her through the humiliation of adultery within their own circle. She swallowed a suffocating rush of shame and frustration and brutally reminded herself that she’d needed a snide remark from the woman her husband was sleeping with before she’d realized what was going on.
The corner of the tiny shutter dug into her palm and she drew her tense hand quickly away from the miniature house and its many memories. In her anger, she’d almost crushed it. Taking a deep breath, she straightened her stiff shoulders and blinked. That Harlan had taken a mistress was inexcusable. But worse, she reflected, cringing, was learning that he didn’t care that she knew.
At first, just thinking of him in bed with Jennifer Ball, her all-time nemesis since play school, had left her feeling physically sick. Then, once she’d mastered the nausea that rose in her throat after hearing Jennifer mention blithely at the tennis club that Harlan was “a great fuck,” she’d carefully finished her lunch, signed the club voucher and driven back to their town house, determined to confront him.
She’d found Harlan in the bedroom, straightening his tie in the gilt mirror above the mantelpiece. Their eyes met in it before he turned, checked his cuff links and prepared to leave for his congressional office.
“Hey,” he’d murmured noncommittally, the practiced smile not reaching his eyes.
“Hey.” Elm had felt strangely nervous, as though the man before her was a stranger and not her husband of twelve years. She’d watched, disbelieving, as he’d stood, arrogantly at ease by the pocket windows, and chitchatted as if nothing were amiss, when surely Jennifer had called him, crowing about her run-in with his stupid wife. He’d even remarked that they were expected for dinner at the Thomas-Leighton house that evening, to please not forget to send flowers; the same things he always remarked upon in that slightly cynical, somewhat patronizing tone she’d become used to.
Elm had watched as he’d picked up his briefcase, bereft of speech, desperately trying to summon up the feverish flood of abuse—so alien to her nature it frightened her—that she’d prepared on the drive home, and been ready to hurl at him.
But the words just wouldn’t come.
Then, before she could gather herself, he’d flashed her a calculated smirk—one that said he knew she knew, but also that he doubted she had the guts to do anything about it—and left the room before she could find the language to hold him back, to ask him why. But the message couldn’t have been clearer: he expected her to ignore what had happened and get back to being a dutiful wife.
And there was the crux of the matter, she realized bitterly, gripping the well-worn arms of the old chair and rocking rhythmically. It wasn’t so much Harlan going to bed with another woman—though that had hurt dreadfully—particularly as it was only six weeks since she’d subjected herself to one last, unsuccessful in vitro fertilization treatment. Or that their sex life—the one area of her tottering marriage she’d desperately wanted to believe had remained intact—was clearly a sham. It was the knowledge, the glaring recognition, that the man she’d known for as long as she could remember had little or no respect for her.
And so she’d run to the plantation, to the welcoming safety of Oleander Creek, to hide from the harsh new truths about her marriage. It was what she always did, she reflected, angrily pitching a faded, flowered cotton cushion across the room. And worse, in the five days she’d been here, she’d solved nothing. All she’d done was ask herself repeatedly why her husband was risking their marriage—and his political career—for the sake of a white-hot affair, right here in Savannah, the community that had twice elected him to Congress.
Elm’s hand dropped in her lap and the chair stopped rocking. What had she expected from him? Embarrassment? Defensiveness? Shame? That she would have understood, could have tried to deal with—might even have made an attempt to bridge the gap and mend the rift.
But he’d demonstrated neither. She’d reviewed the scene repeatedly since that awful morning, and realized that his complete lack of emotion or contrition had turned the ache in her heart numb.
It had also cast a healthy damper over her prickly rage.
Nothing seemed important any longer, neither the facts nor the words nor her stunned feelings. In fact, she’d spent the better part of the week in a haze.
Then, finally, this morning she’d woken with a new focus for her fury: herself. Elm Hathaway MacBride, who at thirty-four years old should know a damn sight better, still hadn’t taken any action, had done nothing to alter the status quo, she reflected with disgust. It was especially galling to know that was exactly what Harlan was counting on.
It was as though she’d been fast asleep and someone had abruptly drawn back the drapes, exposing her to harsh, glaring light. At first she’d blinked, then all at once she’d seen clearly, realized that it wasn’t only Harlan she despised, but herself for having lived for twelve long years like a myopic mouse, making pathetic excuses for his absences, justifying his late nights at committee meetings, applauding his campaign-planning reunions, in a desperate desire to pretend everything was fine. Now, as she sat swaying in the rocker, arms hugging her slim, T-shirted torso, she felt more than just hurt or betrayed; she felt foolish.
For a few moments Elm tried to clear her mind by listening to the rhythmic sound of pattering rain, that relentless, decadent, passionate Southern rain that could rant and rave like a banshee, weep till it tore out your soul, make you yearn as it dripped sensually from trailing Spanish moss perched on the ancient branches of the live oaks that bordered the house and the lawn, and stretched on and on, all the way down to the river. Turning, she gazed out across the property toward the Ogeechee, aware that it was in the same state she was: bursting and about to overflow. Yet even as she whipped up her anger again it felt suddenly remote, as though in the past few hours she’d distanced herself mentally and physically from what, only yesterday, had represented a major disaster. Perhaps, she considered thoughtfully, it wasn’t quite as catastrophic as she’d first imagined.
She glanced at her watch. It was nearly 2:00 p.m. Tracing a pattern on the faded carpet with the toe of her loafer, Elm faced the truth: her well-ordered world had been turned upside down, and the protective barriers she’d so carefully built around herself had collapsed as thoroughly and dramatically as an imploded building. Worse, this dreadful lack of inner peace she was experiencing would continue to haunt her until she took action.
Shoving her fingers through her straight, blond shoulder-length hair, aware now that she hadn’t washed it in two days, Elm took a long, stark look at the wreckage. It was time, she realized with a jolt, to pull herself together and get a grip, instead of hiding out at Oleander Creek.
Usually her family’s centuries-old plantation afforded immediate comfort in times of distress. But not this time. Neither had immersing herself in her painting, the one area of her life that Harlan hadn’t taken over and that afforded her not only pleasure, but the beginnings of success, as her landscapes and portraits—usually Southern scenes and people that she captured with a bold, distinctive brush stroke—became increasingly known throughout the country.
But this time, nothing seemed to help.
As suddenly as it had started, the torrential rain slowed abruptly to a trickle, its intense fury spent. Rising quickly from the wicker rocker, Elm knew an urgent need to get outside, to wander around the plantation’s grounds, desperate to rediscover the sense of serenity that the place had always brought her in the past. She longed to be enveloped in that hazy, magical soothing cloak of oblivion that always caught her unawares the minute she stepped past the ancient wrought-iron gates of the property.
Moving through the dining room, Elm automatically straightened the Hepplewhite chairs surrounding the wide mahogany table and reflected that since Harlan’s betrayal she had experienced no delight at the ancient wisteria covering the Oleander’s trellised walls, nor captured that wistful touch of recognition when she’d stepped—as she always made herself—in the crack in the river-mud brick steps where some careless Yankee soldier had smashed his rifle butt almost a century and a half before. Nothing.
Not even a gentle sigh escaped her as she stepped onto the wide porch, home to the balmy breezes that blew softly in from the river, where she’d spent so many dreamy nights of her girlhood, gazing at the full moon shining bright and clear, while moonbeams played a stealthy game of hide-and-seek over the river and the ever-present scent of lavender and thyme seeped gently past the oleander trees and the camellias. Not even the sight of the old canvas hammock, strung up between the two live oaks a few paces from the hunting lodge, had helped one iota. And reluctantly Elm realized that for the first time in memory Oleander Creek had failed her.
Even as this occurred to her, she wondered if it wasn’t she who had failed Oleander Creek. The plantation had long been home to people of great courage and initiative, rare individuals who’d faced stark, seemingly insurmountable obstacles with decisiveness and grace. Maybe it withheld its pleasures from those who didn’t deserve her.
At the thought, she ran from the dining room, through the study—an addition built in the 1920s by her grandmother—into the hall, and grabbed her jacket, confused. She felt irritable, antsy, shaken and desperate, as though the needle of her compass was suddenly spinning. Opening the front door, she headed quickly down the steps to the old Jeep Cherokee parked on the gravel and shells, unwilling to admit that her safe haven wasn’t safe anymore; that the long hours spent churning up trowel-loads of earth in the gardens had resulted in nothing; that slashing swabs of thick, rich, brightly colored oil paint on endless canvases had in no way assuaged her feelings. And that, like it or not, she was going to have to delve inside the closed Pandora’s box deep within herself to find the answers.
Letting out something between a huff and a groan, Elm turned the key in the ignition, drove around the flower bed and down the bumpy drive that stretched for two miles before it reached Ogeechee Road, knowing definitively that her world had changed and was engulfed by a wave of nostalgia. Nothing would ever be the same again. She’d only felt this way once before, when her mother had died—robbed, defiled and defrauded. But back then she’d been too little to understand, with no one to blame except cruel fate and the cancer that had taken her mother, two bewildering forces that had seemed too huge to counter.
But this was different.
Now, she acknowledged, veering past the gate and waiting for a break in the oncoming traffic, she had a say in the matter and knew where the blame lay. It was her own damn fault for choosing to remain oblivious, aloof, content to sail blithely along, pretending—to herself and others—that everything in her marriage was just dandy, never once admitting that her life was not quite the picture-perfect postcard she’d tried so hard to project.
Elm shifted gears, sat straighter and peered to her left before turning onto I-16 and heading toward Savannah, reflecting as she gripped the wheel tighter that perhaps if she’d done something about the situation sooner, she might have—
The harsh, urgent honking of an oncoming car made her sit up and swallow as she wrenched the Cherokee back apologetically into her own lane. She must stop being so distraught and take action. After all, things weren’t going to fall conveniently back into place simply because she wanted them to. It was too late for that.
A clear stretch in traffic allowed her to put her foot on the accelerator. Glancing down, she glimpsed her old beige Gucci loafers and her smooth feet—still tanned, even though it was early December. That she should notice something as trivial and insignificant as a tan when her life was spinning out of control seemed almost funny. It was also superficial and ridiculous, she reflected, pinning her attention back on the road, a knot in her throat. Typical of the person she’d allowed herself to become.
She let out a small sound of repressed frustration. She didn’t smoke, drank only moderately and didn’t chew gum—that was unladylike. But right now, Elm felt like driving straight to the beautiful mansion featured in Southern Living that she’d shared so dutifully with Harlan for the past twelve goddamn years and getting rip-roaring drunk.
Instead, habit won and she drove carefully into town and made her way sedately through the squares and streets she’d frequented all her life. Waving her manicured hand at Mrs. Finchely on the corner of Abercorn, she parked neatly in front of her own garage, turned off the ignition and took a quick peek in the rearview mirror.
What she saw was a brutal reminder of all that had changed since she’d last been home. Her dark eyes, such a contrast with her hair, had rings under them; her usually healthy skin looked dull. For once she actually looked her age, she reflected, making a feeble attempt to right the offending hair that fell lank on her shoulders. Not that it mattered, she argued, glancing at her hands—well tended despite the daily contact with the earth and all her work gardening. Sliding them over the thighs of her beige chinos, she tried to think. She must talk to someone or she’d go crazy.
But whom?
Aunt Frances, her mother’s sister and her lifelong confidante, was out of town. Anyway, she was an elderly lady and shouldn’t be worried by her niece’s problems.
Elm alighted absently from the car, but instead of entering the house began walking. A passing acquaintance nodded, and automatically she plastered on the practiced, obligatory smile of a senator’s daughter and congressman’s wife, still wondering who, in the whole of Savannah, she could talk to.
Really talk to.
Of course there was Meredith, but Elm recalled her friend mentioning that she was working on a big case, so she’d be too busy right now. But after several steps and a quick review of her long list of acquaintances, she realized, shocked, that there was no one else, simply no one, whom she trusted enough not to broadcast her private hurt, her status as betrayed wife, to the world.
Crossing the road into Forsythe Park, Elm shuddered at the spectacle she would afford. The mere thought of her private life being relayed in murmured confidential whispers at the gym or over chardonnay-drenched lunches at the tennis league was too appalling to contemplate.
Oh, God. Down the street, approaching rapidly, was General Mortimer. He would want to stop for a chat, tell her the weather forecast. Usually she listened, smiled, nodded at the same remarks she’d heard, day in, day out, for years. But not today. Right now she simply couldn’t face it. Dipping her chin, Elm hid behind the curtain of long hair, hoping her black designer shades would disguise her sufficiently, and swerved up the nearest path, realizing as she did so that she’d instinctively walked in the direction of Meredith’s law offices. For a moment she hesitated, then stopped on the curb and closed her eyes tight shut. She simply had to let loose or she’d explode. However busy Meredith might be, she was the one and only person Elm needed right now.
Opening her eyes once more, she stared past the old-fashioned street trolley packed with eager tourists, necks craning as they hung on to their guide’s practiced description of precise locations where Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil was filmed, and walked determinedly across the street. She’d witnessed this scene countless times, typically with good humor, sometimes laced with a mild flash of irritation for the notoriety Savannah had achieved.
But not today.
Today she couldn’t have cared less how many tourists invaded the city. She felt strangely detached from her surroundings, could visualize herself—tall, well dressed despite the casual nature of her clothes, waiting to cross the street—like an out-of-body experience.
How many affairs had Harlan had, she wondered suddenly, stepping absently into the street. It was as though, all at once, so much of what she hadn’t understood—hadn’t wanted to see—made perfect sense. It must have been obvious to all those surrounding her. Yet she’d refused to get the message, refused to face reality inching its way insidiously into her world, had remained trapped like a rabbit in headlights, dazed by Harlan’s charisma, her father’s ambitious plans for his son-in-law, and her own dogged determination that the marriage shouldn’t fail, couldn’t fail.
The panicked blast of a horn and the screeching of tires made her jerk up, aghast. She’d wandered into the street and hadn’t noticed.
Sending the outraged driver of the enormous SUV an apologetic smile, she hurried to the opposite pavement. Shit. That was the second time in under an hour she’d lost all sense of reality. But the pang of—not pain—that was something you endured, something you went through for a worthy cause, and this certainly didn’t qualify—but the strange, angry torment she was experiencing, directed as much at her own obtuse need to go on believing in the dream she’d so carefully constructed as at Harlan, wasn’t allowing her to think straight. Perhaps she was being ridiculous and this happened to most marriages at some point. But deep inside she knew that, too, was a lie.
By the time she took stock of her whereabouts, Elm realized she was opposite the Oglethorpe Club and Meredith’s office. Rollins, Hunter & Mills, attorneys at law, practiced in the magnificent mansion standing on the corner. She crossed the road, carefully this time, and rang the buzzer at the ornate wrought-iron gate, feeling as though someone had pressed the button on a stopwatch and put her life on hold.
2
The buzzer buzzed.
Elm pushed the gate open and walked up the shallow steps to the law office’s imposing front door.
As soon as she stepped inside, she was plunged into the high-powered, hectic world of Savannah’s most prominent law firm, of successful attorneys barking sharp orders to Mylanta-popping paralegals in high heels and T.J. Maxx power suits. She stood for a moment and studied the pleasant face of the pregnant receptionist sitting unfazed in a bright pink smock behind a large antique desk as wide as she, trilling out the firm’s well-established name every few seconds, juggling calls, while anxious, six-hundred-dollar-an-hour clients were put on hold, waiting impatiently to be connected.
“Mrs. MacBride?” Ally, Meredith’s rake-thin secretary, halted her sprint down the hallway and stopped, surprise evident on her pallid face. “Were we expecting you?” she asked, an anxious frown appearing as she mentally reviewed the day’s agenda.
“No. I don’t have an appointment,” Elm replied. And for the first time in memory she did not apologize or add if it’s not convenient I’ll return another time, or don’t bother Meredith if she’s in an important meeting. Right now—to use Meredith’s language, rather than her own—she didn’t give a flying fuck how busy her friend was, she needed to speak with her. Now.
“Right.” Ally, immediately businesslike, took charge. “If you’ll wait here just one second, Mrs. MacBride, I’ll check if she can see you right away. Why don’t you take a seat?” She indicated the group of studded leather sofas and armchairs strategically placed in the inner alcove, overshadowed by a gigantic Christmas tree, that looked out over the secluded garden and served as a waiting room.
“Thanks. But I’ll just wait here.” Elm smiled politely in the poised manner that was a part of her nature, and stayed put.
“Sure. I’ll—” Ally smiled nervously, indicated Meredith’s door, and after the briefest of knocks disappeared.
“Elm!” A booming baritone echoed behind her and a large palm clapped her on the shoulder. “What are you doing here, young lady?” Ross Rollins, senior partner, ex-state supreme court judge, and intimate friend of her father, Senator George Hathaway, shook her hand with delight. “Well, if this isn’t a wonderful surprise. Best get one of those gals in there to find us some coffee.” He gestured to the hall at large.
“Actually, I just popped in to see Meredith.”
“Sure. Now, tell me, Elm—” Ross slipped a broad arm about her slim shoulders “—how’s that handsome husband of yours doing, eh? Getting ready to win another term, I’ll bet. A little bird whispered to me that he has some pretty ambitious aspirations this time round. Particularly now that Jeff Anderson’s gone,” he added, lowering his voice. “Sad he went so young, very sad indeed,” the older man muttered, donning a suitably concerned frown for the recently deceased house minority leader. “Still, might just be Harlan’s lucky break, mightn’t it?”
She was saved from answering by Meredith, who appeared, beige-skirted and white-shirted, on the threshold of her own little empire.
“Hey. This is a surprise.” Meredith pecked Elm on the cheek, registering her friend’s pale, set face. With a quick word she dismissed Ross, linking her arm with Elm’s and sweeping her toward the open office door. “What brought you in here?” she asked, mentally filing the municipal-trash case—it would just have to wait—her bright eyes studying Elm’s fixed smile and controlled posture.
Something was obviously wrong, she reflected uneasily. In all the years they’d been friends—and that went back longer than she cared to remember—and not once since she’d begun practicing law, had Elm ever appeared unannounced. She invariably called first, making sure in that soft, elegant, well-mannered way of hers that it was convenient. “Come in. It’s good to see you.” She smiled more brightly than she felt.
“Sorry not to have called,” Elm murmured, following Meredith into her large, square, high-ceilinged room, a maze of stacked legal files, cardboard boxes with their contents labeled in thick black marker, and piles of miscellaneous documents waiting to be filed and delivered to the document bank. The desk was the one orderly area in the entire room.
“What’s wrong?” Meredith said as soon as the door closed. She pointed authoritatively at a new gray chair bought last week to replace the sagging green one that had finally collapsed. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
Elm stared straight at her and remained standing. “Mer, did you know?”
“Know what?” Meredith’s brows met in a dark ridge over the bridge of her straight, thin nose.
“That Harlan was having an affair with Jennifer Ball?” Elm’s voice sounded almost casual, as though the discovery of her husband’s affair with one of Savannah’s most notorious divorcées was an everyday occurrence.
“Oh, Jesus!” Meredith sank behind her desk and pushed her glasses back into position. The day she’d long been dreading had arrived. The shit had finally hit the fan.
“Well? Did you?” Elm’s black shades stared blankly at her.
“I—look…kind of, okay?” She let out a sigh and again gestured for Elm to take a seat.
“And you never said a word.” Elm gripped the back of the chair.
“Look, sit down and I’ll explain.” She’d always known that one day Elm would suffer a rude awakening from the daydream she’d been living for more than a decade. Just hadn’t expected it would happen today.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Elm asked tightly. She sat on the edge of the gray chair and removed her shades. “Why didn’t you warn me, Mer? And by the way,” she added, her tone bitter, “just who else knows that my husband is fucking Jennifer? Everyone except me, I suppose?”
“Pretty much,” Meredith muttered, suddenly wary. Elm never used bad language.
“I repeat, why didn’t you tell me?” Elm pinned her mercilessly, her eyes two huge chestnut pools of pain, anger and crushed pride.
“Hell, Elm, how could I?” Meredith burst out, cringing inwardly. Should she have told her? Would it have been fairer?
“You’re my friend,” Elm bit back, “the only friend I trust in this damn cesspool. But you didn’t see fit to warn me. I don’t understand.”
“Hold it. It’s not quite that simple,” Meredith countered, leaning forward and reverting to the measured tone she used to announce a lost case to a client. “How could I tell you,” she queried deliberately, “what you didn’t want to know?”
“Of course I would have wanted to know,” Elm countered with a scathing laugh. “That’s ridiculous.”
“I hate to burst your bubble, hon, but that’s not strictly true.” Meredith leaned farther forward, elbows posed on the desk. “For twelve years—make it thirteen, if you include your engagement—you’ve stuck Harlan so high upon a pedestal that you made sure he was unreachable. Even by you.”
“That’s absurd,” Elm spluttered.
“Oh, yeah? Well, why is it, then, that during the entire course of your marriage I have never once heard you criticize him, or even say a single negative word about him?” Meredith asked, eyes narrowed.
“I don’t approve of criticizing one’s spouse.” She grimaced at her prissy words.
“Right.” Meredith sucked in her cheeks and nodded. “Very laudable, I’m sure, but at times I have to say I found it hard to swallow. Hell, I love my Tom but I’m always bitching about him.”
“That’s different.”
“In what way?” Meredith quirked an interested brow.
“I don’t know—” Elm gestured nervously “—it just is.”
“Bullshit. You made up your mind Harlan was going to be Mr. Perfect, then you stuck to that notion through hell and high water, even though I reckon you knew it wasn’t working out right from the start,” she said shrewdly. “Look, I’m sorry it’s happened this way, Elm, but maybe it’s time to wake up and smell a megadose of double espresso?”
“It would certainly seem so,” Elm murmured dryly, nervously fiddling with the sunglasses on her lap, the bitter truths she’d denied for the better part of her adult life rising in her throat. “I guess I must be plain stupid not to have seen this coming,” she said finally. “I must need fucking bifocals,” she added, her mouth set in a tight line Meredith had never seen before.
“Don’t beat up on yourself.” She reached across the desk and touched Elm’s icy fingers. “You did it because of the way you are. I’ve never known you to take on a cause and do a half-assed job. Take the garden project you’re working on right now. I’ll bet nobody shovels more damn earth than you do, nobody plants more seedlings. Or your exhibitions.” She shrugged and smiled. “It’s all the same, Elm. You throw yourself into everything you do, give every ounce of your being. Only, sometimes others don’t meet your expectations and you’re bitterly disappointed. Problem is,” she added, picking up a pen and doodling speculatively, “not everyone—and that includes your hubby—has your high standards or is as dedicated and sincere as you.”
“Gee, thanks! Knowing I’m an obsessive perfectionist who’s blind to the world makes me feel a hell of a lot better.”
“Rubbish. You know that isn’t so.”
“Really? Then how do you explain that Harlan’s gotten away with this affair? And I suppose there must have been others. It’s only that Jennifer is the first one who couldn’t resist the temptation of telling me Harlan’s a great fuck! I suppose I should be grateful to her,” she added grimly, knuckles strained and white from gripping the glasses, as though crushing them might relieve some of her bewildered anger.
“Not so fast,” Meredith countered. “Let’s go back and review the circumstances. Right from the start, long before you married Harlan, you’d convinced yourself that he was Mr. Right.”
“He was. At least he seemed—right.” Elm bit her lip and glanced at the porcelain ashtray on the desk, wishing she smoked.
“For whom?” Meredith’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “You or Uncle George?”
Elm’s head flew up, then she hesitated. She’d been about to protest vehemently, but her friend’s words made her stop. She glanced toward the window. Was it true? Had she wanted Harlan to be perfect because her father was so enchanted with the idea of his prospective son-in-law’s glittering political future? She let out a long sigh, then met Meredith’s eyes straight on. “Both, I guess.”
“Exactly.” Meredith nodded, satisfied. “Harlan had all the prerequisites of the successful politician—handsome, great charisma, old family. Poor as church mice, of course, but hey, who gives a damn since he’s in some way related to Oglethorpe and the founding of Savannah, right?” She enumerated the qualities, ticking them off one by one. “A truly great candidate. Your father’s dream boy. The son he never had.”
“There was nothing wrong with that,” Elm replied defensively.
“No, except that somewhere along the line, having Harlan in the family became more important to him than your own happiness.”
“That’s not true,” Elm lied. “I truly believed I’d be happy with Harlan, and there was never any question of Daddy—”
“I know, I know,” Meredith soothed, “he’s the other Mr. Perfect in your life. But let’s face it, Elm, I remember talking when you got engaged. Christ, you had so many dreams, such focused expectations. Remember all the idealism? How convinced you were that being his wife would be a fulfilling path? That together you would achieve all sorts of worthy objectives?”
“You make it sound all trite and stupid and it wasn’t. I really did believe it.”
“I know, and I’m sorry.” Meredith smiled apologetically. “I didn’t mean to diminish your dreams. They were very worthwhile. It’s just a pity Harlan never believed in them. Let’s face it, babe,” she said, leaning back and letting her large leather chair swing, “Harlan never expected to make you an active partner in his politics. Twelve years in, you’re still his lackey. Expected to throw great parties and enhance his social status, but shut out of making any significant policy contributions.
“Not that you aren’t doing great things on your own—your painting exhibitions are phenomenal, you’re becoming known. Hell, that Frenchman—who’s supposed to be an international art specialist—Le Souche—who was in town last month even bought one. And working with abused women to restore the gardens at Oleander Creek is one heck of a worthy cause.”
“But?”
“Elm, face it. Harlan’s reneged on his part of the bargain. He’s ignored your input. I mean, has he ever solicited your advice about any aspect of his platform? I didn’t see him asking you about whether that massive waste-processing plant he green-lighted would have any impact on the environment. You’d think that since it’s just up the creek from your plantation, he’d have sought your involvement on that, at least. He’s just been using you—and you’ve let him.”
“That may be partially true,” Elm admitted grudgingly, regaining some of her poise. “Of course, perhaps if you’d seen fit to tell me all this sooner, I might have avoided some of it,” she threw out reproachfully.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Elm, who are you trying to fool? You know very well you wouldn’t have listened to a word I had to say.”
“I might have.”
“Bull crap.”
Elm swallowed, seriously shaken. All these years she’d carried the load of her inadequate, unsatisfying, empty marriage alone, convinced no one but she knew the truth. Now she felt cheated at her own game. “God, I just wish you’d told me how you really felt,” she repeated, shaking her head, bewildered.
“Elm, honey, put yourself in my shoes.” Meredith let out a gusty sigh. “How could I, in all fairness, turn around and tell you that Jennifer was bragging to anyone who’d listen that she’s bagged Harlan MacBride, when it was obvious you didn’t want to hear, or want to know, or want to see? Hell, we lunched last week and you were still singing Harlan’s praises. The one and only time,” she said through gritted teeth, “I ever came close to bursting your bubble was a few months ago, when you were recovering from that last IVF treatment and Jennifer was preening about Harlan taking her to the Cloisters for a romantic weekend.”
“I can’t believe he did that.” Tears of rage and disappointment hurtled to the surface. “How could he?” she uttered suddenly, voice cracking. “How could he have been such a bastard?” She looked away, hiding her face with her hair, as the full implication of Harlan’s deceit came rocketing home.
Meredith eyed Elm, wished she could console her but recognized she must make her friend face the whole truth. “He’s damn fortunate your father didn’t hear about it. Harlan seems to have a knack for getting lucky,” she added dryly.
A nasty, creepy sensation stirred in the pit of Elm’s stomach. “Go on. Tell me who was in line before Jennifer.” She felt sick, yet she was determined to learn every last iniquitous detail.
“Well, she’s the first who’s really gone around flaunting it, but I understand there’ve been a few. Most of them were out-of-towners. He had a girl up in Charleston for a while, a secretary at a bank, I believe. He’s been very careful. I think this is the first time he’s done anything so public. I was pretty surprised. Heck, if something like this hit the tabloids, Harlan’s chances of being reelected would be zilch.” She held Elm’s eyes for a full fifteen seconds, making sure Elm registered the full import of the words that had been in her craw for too damn long. Then she sat back and watched her friend carefully, feeling sad. Elm had been through a hell of a lot and didn’t deserve this. She glanced anxiously across the desk.
“How did you find all this out?” Elm said, letting out a sigh.
“Tom told me.”
“So, Tom knew. My God. I…Christ, this is all so crazy.” Elm rose abruptly, dragged her fingers through her hair, her mind a mess of scrambled wires being gnawed at and shredded by persistent rodents. This couldn’t be happening.
“What are you going to do?” Meredith asked slowly.
“Do?” Elm turned, glanced absently past her at the dull cream wallpaper plastered with Meredith’s credentials—Old Miss, Harvard and Yale—and asked herself the same question. What was she going to do now that she knew, now that she was fully aware of the facts and couldn’t hide behind blissful ignorance any longer? It had taken only seconds for the world as she knew it to fall apart. How long would it take for her to do what eventually would have to be done?
For a moment Elm’s pulse raced, followed by a debilitating wave of dizziness. She’d had a few of these bouts lately. In fact, she’d been to see Doc Philips about them and he’d sent her tests to Dr. Ashby, a specialist in Atlanta. But this wasn’t the same kind of dizziness, she reassured herself. This was different, caused by fear from the latest onslaught.
A new thought intruded in her already saturated mind. Surely her father, the redoubtable, venerated and oh-so-respected senator, couldn’t have known any of this? Surely her father wouldn’t have hidden the truth from her all these years? Surely Harlan’s political future didn’t mean more to him than his daughter’s life? Her stomach lurched once more and she swallowed. That was impossible. She refused to believe that her own father could have been aware of Harlan’s behavior. He would never have betrayed her, however dearly he hoped to put Harlan in the Oval Office. Or was she just trying to fool herself once again?
She collapsed rigid onto the chair, hands trembling.
“Elm, are you okay?” Meredith eyed her anxiously, wondering if she should get coffee, water or something stronger.
“I want to file for divorce.” The words came tumbling out almost as an afterthought, as though someone else were speaking.
“Hey, wait a minute.” Meredith sat up, startled. “That’s a huge step, Elm. I’m not saying you’re wrong, but you’d better think it over very carefully.”
“My mind’s made up.” She sounded strangely firm and resolute.
“But, Elm, the election, the—”
“Fuck the election. I’m through. Get the papers together, Mer. And after I’m gone, you can tell him.”
“Elm, I think you should consider the—”
“As of this moment, I’m hiring you as my attorney,” Elm interrupted, pushing back the chair and rising.
“I can’t. There’s a conflict of interest, we’re friends.” Elm shrugged. “You figure it out. I won’t be here, anyway. I’m leaving.”
“Where’re you going?”
“To Gioconda in Switzerland. I’ll stay with her at her chalet in Gstaad.”
“But it’s Christmas in two and a half weeks, Elm, you can’t just walk out. Think of all your social commitments, the—”
“Frankly, I couldn’t give a damn. Just don’t let Daddy get a whiff of any of this yet.”
“Elm, it’s really not a good idea to make this kind of decision in the heat of the moment,” Meredith insisted. “Are you absolutely sure this is what you want?” She came around the desk and laid an anxious hand on her friend’s arm.
“I have to get out of here. It’s the only way, Mer. Call me at Gio’s when the papers are ready to sign. Please get it done fast. And thanks.”
“For what, screwing up your life?” Meredith shook her head bitterly. “I shouldn’t have come on so strong.”
“Don’t. We both know this had to happen one day. Everything you said was true. I just didn’t want to recognize it. And now that I have, there’s no way I can sit back and take it as I have all these years.” She leaned over and gave her friend a quick hug.
Passing a worried hand through her pageboy haircut, Meredith sighed as she watched her friend leave. Elm was right. It would have come to this, anyway. Still, she was shocked and surprised at the rapidity of Elm’s decision. She prayed she wouldn’t regret it. She’d expected every sort of reaction—tears, anger, frustration—but not this. Not cold, rigid decision. My God, she realized, collapsing again in her chair, Elm had simply transformed into another being. For a moment she wondered if she should advise someone, even call Harlan or Senator Hathaway, the housekeeper—heck, anyone.
Then she realized she couldn’t.
Technically, she was now Elm’s legal representative and as such was bound to do what her client had requested: namely, prepare divorce papers and stay quiet about it.
She stared at the file she’d been working on, the legal challenge to the privatization of the Mogachee Municipal Waste Processing Plant, and sighed. Maybe Elm would calm down by tomorrow and realize she was being too precipitate. Not that Meredith blamed her for wanting rid of Harlan as fast as possible. Still, there were a number of things to be taken into consideration. Elm was a very wealthy woman, and the publicity…
Leaning back in her chair, she considered Harlan. He certainly deserved anything he got, even being dumped two weeks before Christmas. Still, she was herself a die-hard Democrat, and the party couldn’t afford to lose Harlan’s seat to the Republicans. On the other hand, Meredith had to admit, under all that boyish, suave, Kennedy-style charm, Elm’s husband was a dirtbag who’d gotten lucky thanks to the old-boy network that functioned on past favors and future dues. She shrugged, wishing she hadn’t been the one to confirm what Jennifer Ball, in her unsubtle, vindictive way, had let loose.
She could just imagine Jennifer, with those long, glossy legs she was so proud of, striding arrogantly over to Elm in full view of her less-well-endowed former classmates—now full-fledged veterans of the garden club, bravely fighting any incipient signs of middle age—and baring her capped white teeth at Elm. Jennifer had always loathed Elm, knowing she’d never have Elm’s beauty, poise, wealth or privileged position in Savannah society, and she would have made darn sure her little entourage of doting admirers—including Hannah Ramsey, Tiffany Fern, and that two-faced bitch Elsa MacDonald—were present for Elm’s humiliation. Jennifer had been divorced twice, and had had several affairs with notable local citizens. Luring Elm’s husband to her side was a natural evolutionary step, and one that must have been especially satisfying. Not that Harlan needed much enticement, Meredith reflected grimly. The man apparently had a hard time keeping his pants on.
But divorce. Even she was shocked. After all, Harlan and Elm were an institution.
Did Elm have any idea of all that was on the line? Meredith wondered, concerned. With everything Harlan had to lose, there was no way he was going to take this lying down.
Tapping her pen rhythmically on her yellow legal pad, Meredith thought the matter over. Perhaps in a couple of days, when Elm had calmed down, she could talk to her reasonably, persuade her to wait at least until after the holidays, not make a rash decision in the heat of the moment. And then, if she was still determined to go ahead, then maybe Elm could have it out with Harlan and come to some kind of civilized arrangement. Not that he deserved it. Far from it. But in the long run, it would be better for all concerned.
When the phone rang, Meredith grabbed it as though her life depended upon the call. Anything right now, she figured, even old Mr. Tompson’s estate case—which she loathed—would come as a welcome relief.
3
“Bitch,” Harlan MacBride muttered, then slammed down the phone so hard the antique mahogany desk shuddered. Had Elm gone fucking nuts?
Meredith Hunter’s words echoed ominously.
Elm wanted a divorce.
It was unthinkable.
He’d never have guessed she had the guts to cross him this way, or that she’d take such a drastic step and then disappear. She’d been missing for days, making things damned uncomfortable for him—he’d only just now learned that she’d hightailed it to Switzerland, to that crazy Italian friend of hers whom he’d never liked, Gioconda Mancini.
Harlan flexed his fingers, eyes narrowed. Fuck Elm. She had no right to do this, no right at all. And fuck Jennifer for having opened her big sexy mouth. She was a great lay, and that tongue of hers could work wonders, but obviously he’d misjudged her ability to keep her goddamn trap shut.
He should have been more careful, he admitted, his lower lip twitching. But all those damn IVF treatments had been such a drag. Worse, he’d had to carry on the pretense of giving a shit—cosset Elm after the implantations, agree to the doctor’s recommendation that he stay out of her bed—when he had far bigger matters on his plate. It wasn’t surprising he’d let off steam with Jennifer. Any man would have. Elm should be grateful to him for being so understanding instead of flying off in a sulk.
And now she was threatening divorce, he reflected grimly. If he wasn’t meticulous about defusing her snit, Elm could spoil his re-election chances. She of all people knew he’d won his House seat on a platform promoting strong, Christian family values. Hell, the goddamn campaign posters that were going out next week showed him holding her hand and surrounded by smiling kids. Not his kids, mind you, he reflected, annoyed.
He shook his head and muttered crossly. Elm was nothing but an unappreciative spoiled brat who should be thanking her lucky stars for having a husband like him, one who, despite the drawback of not having children, had been able to look past the negative and see the potential of the situation. That was something he’d learned early on: how to twist circumstances—however challenging—to his advantage.
Harlan leaned back in the deep office chair and a slow smile crept over his handsome features as he recalled the several newspaper and TV interviews where he’d tearfully confessed that God hadn’t seen fit to bless them with kids, how maybe one day he and his wife would adopt. It had worked like a charm. Immediately the family-values freaks and the born-again Christians had come beating down his door, fists full of campaign dollars.
But they’d abandon him in a heartbeat if Elm’s allegations ever got out, he reflected gloomily, the smile disappearing as fast as it had dawned. And so would Senator Hathaway’s support, he realized, sitting up straighter. Much as he’d prefer to forget it, Harlan knew that, despite his charisma and eloquent Southern charm, it was Elm’s father—the influential six-term senator from Georgia—who’d gotten him elected. Hathaway had made phone calls, calling in half-a-century’s worth of favors, and the checks had followed. But even more critical was the family connection. Being viewed as the senator’s political heir-apparent gave him instant clout. No way could that be jeopardized, he thought, sucking in his lean cheeks, bronzed from a weekend of sailing on his friend Tyler Brock’s hundred-foot sloop. There had to be a way around this.
Harlan drummed the desk absently and pondered. At thirty-seven, he was everything old man Hathaway had once been: young, handsome, charismatic. But whereas Hathaway, for all his wealth and clout, had long ago had to content himself with the Senate floor, Harlan possessed that extra something that made him special, that rare and extraordinary political talent that made the White House a realistic goal. They both knew it, and that’s why the senator had invested so heavily in him—because Harlan was his ticket to what he couldn’t get on his own. No way was Hathaway going to let that dream die.
Of course, it helped that he had no clear idea of what state his daughter’s marriage was in; the senator was very protective of Elm. Still, surely he could be made to understand, to see things Harlan’s way? It might not be a bad idea to present himself as the injured party here, soliciting his father-in-law’s sympathy, he reflected, fingering his Old Miss tie. It all depended on just how much Elm had blabbered.
Despite his nonchalance, he pulled the handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped a thin film of sweat from his brow. Old Man Hathaway was a rigid stickler for form, prided himself on being the goddamn Conscience of the Senate. Elm had to know she could wreak considerable damage with a tearful call to Dear Daddy.
Even as he considered that frightening possibility, he acknowledged that, for all her faults, broadcasting private matters wasn’t Elm’s style. Plus, Hathaway had been in the dark about his daughter’s whereabouts, too. Maybe the better course here was just to come clean—well, not too clean, certainly, just enough to cover his ass in case someone saw fit to inform Hathaway of his son-in-law’s little dalliances. He mentally sketched a speech—he’d act repentant, confide in him man-to-man, make the proper excuses. The senator was a player after all, a pragmatist. With any luck, he’d understand and let Harlan off with a scolding.
The idea grew on him. Not that its success was a given—he’d have to tread carefully. Elm was the old man’s only daughter, after all, and however much the senator might like and support his son-in-law, blood ran thicker than water. Particularly, Harlan mused, for someone like George Hathaway.
For a moment he surveyed his elegantly appointed office, the elaborate eighteenth-century frieze, the authentic antiques and Old Master paintings, the gracious bay windows reaching out onto the inner garden so carefully tended by Josiah, the Hathaway family gardener, all part of the image he’d so carefully compiled and cultivated. It was no less than he deserved, of course. Unfortunately, he reminded himself sourly, it all belonged to his beautiful, elusive wife. These offices, the house on Abercorn, were essential to asserting his status. Thank God very few of his constituents got to see that dumpy back office he’d been assigned at the Capitol, a sharp reminder that, in the bigger scheme of things, he still stood on the bottom rung of the political ladder.
But that was on the verge of changing.
If Elm didn’t mess up.
He clenched his fingers and stared at the wall, plastered with endless photographs featuring flattering images of himself with everyone from Clinton and Bush to Magic Johnson and the king of Saudi Arabia. The sight soothed his sizzling temper and helped clear his head. He might still be only a junior congressman, but he’d already made many powerful friends and cultivated connections that he was certain would pay off in the future.
However, all that would be seriously at risk unless he fixed his little problem, he reminded himself. It was essential that Elm return. Harlan slumped in the chair and brooded. What did she want? he wondered. The divorce threat had to be a bluff. Still, never in a hundred years would he have imagined she’d go this route. Obviously he’d made a serious misstep in not acting suitably penitent the other morning. He should have realized when she disappeared to Oleander for those few days that something was up. But she was always buried over there, painting those weird canvases that the critics seemed to think were so hot and redoing the gardens with those freaks she’d recruited from the battered women’s center.
With a shake of the head, Harlan rallied. He prided himself on crisis control, the power to compartmentalize and find effective solutions for any predicament. The present one required focus and action. He pulled himself up and began making notes on a legal pad, reviewing the circumstances.
Then a slow smile curved his lips, and he tapped his foot rhythmically, beginning to relax. Elm had recently complained of—what was it? Some sort of weird symptoms. Damn it, he couldn’t quite remember. Never mind. She’d talked of visiting Doc Philips. Bingo. There was his excuse staring him right in the face: Elm was making all the wrong decisions because she wasn’t feeling herself.
“Ha!” Harlan let out a harsh laugh and brought his fist down on the desk with a satisfied thud. If he played this right with Hathaway, he might just emerge smelling like a rose. If he played it right. It was essential to shoot dead on target.
Closing his eyes, Harlan conjured up the scene that would take place later in the senator’s library, silently mouthing his words: Elm wasn’t herself, needed help, had some sort of female problem that was affecting her decision-making. Maybe the last failed IVF treatment had hit her harder than they’d realized. He was sorry, so very sorry, he’d done anything to hurt her—his only excuse was that the stress of infertility had affected him, too. He regretted it bitterly, but surely she could forgive one little slip? And by the way, shouldn’t they try to do something about this absurd divorce procedure that made no sense at all and that she would obviously regret the minute she regained her health?
He jumped up, excited.
It was perfect.
For a second he thought of the other measures he was implementing that one day, he hoped, would secure him his absolute freedom from the powerful Hathaway clan. But that was farther down the line. It was still too soon, he reminded himself. He shook his head. There was far too much at stake to take foolish risks. He owed it to the electorate to ensure his staying power, didn’t he? After all, the future of the greatest nation in the world could not depend on the whims of a slighted woman.
Twiddling his gold fountain pen—the one with which he signed all official documents—Harlan glanced coldly at his wife’s beautiful image smiling wistfully up at him from the silver-framed photograph. He would not tolerate her messing with him.
He felt better now that he’d decided on a definitive strategy. He stretched his arms and rotated his neck. Then he caught sight of himself in the gilt-framed eighteenth-century mirror above the marble mantel. Head tilted, Harlan surveyed himself critically. It wasn’t just his boyish charm or rueful smile that captured voters, he acknowledged proudly. It was that blazing internal radiance that he’d learned to produce automatically, profoundly conscious of its effect. In simple terms, he had the power to seduce others! It gave him a rush to know he could subject them to his will. In fact, he was increasingly amazed at his own flawless charisma. Each time he spoke he absorbed the crowd’s energy, its vibes, steeped himself in the atmosphere, then let the public set him on track, offer him their vision, so that he could pitch what they wanted back to them.
There was always a point—usually about five minutes into a speech—when he captured the audience’s response, when he knew the bond had been forged. From then on, it was plain sailing and the gathered electorate was his. And that was his secret weapon—the magic touch that would lead him inevitably to his ultimate goal.
Straightening his shoulders, Harlan jutted his well-defined chin and remembered Jack Kennedy. A sudden vision of himself, ankles casually crossed on the desk of the Oval Office, sent a rush ripping through him. He rocked on his heels and basked in it. Then just as quickly, he stood still. He would get there, all right, but first he must get his ducks in a row.
He glanced at his watch, then at the battery of phones spread on the desk. Better get on with it and set up the appointment right away. There was no point in avoiding what had to be done.
4
Senator George Hathaway straightened the jacket of his immaculate dark suit and pulled from his waistcoat his grand-father’s watch, the one that had kept perfect time since before the Civil War. He eyed it narrowly. Harlan was due here at six o’clock. If his son-in-law knew what was good for him, he wouldn’t be late.
Crossing the somber library lined with several generations’ worth of classics, he settled heavily into his favorite armchair, noting with surprise that his customary copy of the Washington Post was missing. Normally the morning edition was always set, freshly ironed, on the delicate side table. Then he recalled the servants had the day off for a Christmas event at the local Baptist church. George Hathaway encouraged churchgoing. He himself attended Christ Church, the oldest church in Savannah, as did Harlan and Elm.
But this past Sunday, Harlan had come to services alone.
At first he’d worried something was wrong with his daughter—Elm had been having strange spells of sickness in recent weeks, and he’d urged her to seek care. But when Harlan admitted that Elm had left Savannah, whereabouts unknown, it raised another disturbing possibility. There were troubling signs that things were deeply wrong in his beloved daughter’s marriage.
The senator sighed deeply. In all the years Elm had been married to Harlan, he’d always believed her to be happy. Yet over the past few weeks something inexplicable had occurred and the marriage had clearly suffered. Elm had refused to explain. And now she’d gone away right before the holiday season, without an explanation, leaving no phone number, just a letter saying she needed some time and would call him.
It was irresponsible and selfish behavior, he concluded, shaking his gray head. Surely he’d brought her up to know better? His son-in-law was a fine young man with a promising future in which he himself had invested heavily. Harlan would go far—all the way to the White House, he hoped—but Elm’s inexplicable actions could only serve as a hindrance.
Perhaps Harlan was right to think Elm’s recent illness was the reason she was acting in a manner so unlike her usual dutiful self. Still, the senator suspected there was likely more to matters than Harlan was willing to admit. He’d heard a couple of rumors, things he’d have preferred not to have heard. Harlan was a handsome young fellow, he reflected, one who held a prominent position in society and a growing political power base, all elements that caused envy and inevitable gossip. They also attracted an inevitable bevy of women. But Harlan was a caring, loving husband. At least he appeared to be. Surely Elm was too bright to be put off by any silly nonsense?
Letting out a huff, he raised his tall frame from the deep maroon leather chair near the fire, too restless to read yesterday’s copy of Congressional Quarterly and glanced into the hall at the Christmas tree standing forlorn in the corner. Ever since she was a wee thing, Elm had helped decorate it. The only other year the tree had remained bare until just before Christmas was the year Elm turned five and her mother had succumbed to cancer, he recalled with a sigh.
Checking his pocket watch once more, he noted with gathering impatience that it was one minute past six. At that very moment the doorbell clanged. With a small nod, the senator made his way across the marbled foyer floor and opened up the massive polished mahogany door.
“Ah. Harlan, m’boy, come on in.”
“Hello, sir.” Harlan gave him a tight smile.
Something about Harlan’s attitude made the shrewd senator suddenly afraid that his suspicions were right and that he had somehow bungled things badly. He sent him a bland speculative glance before leading the way under the heavy crystal chandelier imported by the first Hathaway in 1820, and across the wide-planked pine floors of the library.
“Any news?” he asked, leaning over a silver tray decked with a splendid array of whiskey-filled Waterford decanters that sparkled invitingly. He poured two heavy cut-crystal tumblers of single malt and turned, handing one to Harlan, who stood, face drawn, next to the Adam mantelpiece.
“We’ve traced her, sir. She’s staying with Gioconda Mancini in Switzerland.”
“Thank God for that,” the senator sighed, relieved, and sank back into the sagging leather. “I was getting concerned. So unlike her to disappear like this. Very odd.” He sipped thoughtfully, never taking his eyes off his son-in-law.
“Well, at least now I know she’s safe.” Harlan threw back the whiskey in one shot, obviously deeply affected by his wife’s sudden disappearance. He glanced at his father-in-law. “I just wish I knew why she felt this sudden need to disappear. I—” He looked down at the carpet, shook his head, then sighed. “I don’t understand, sir. I’ve tried to be there for her, be a good husband. If I’d known she was feeling sick again I’d have gone with her to Doc Philips, but she never told me—”
“Hmm. I don’t understand it myself.”
“I guess we’ll just have to be patient, give her the time and understanding she needs to get over this…this idea she’s got in her head,” he murmured, lips tight as he stared blindly through the window into the lush garden, past the camellias and the Roman fountain where two starlings perched, eyes fixed on the ivy-covered wall that for nearly two centuries had protected the Hathaways’ privacy.
“Well. At least if she’s with Gioconda we don’t have to worry she’ll be properly looked after. We should have thought of Gioconda immediately. It was the obvious place for Elm to go, now that I think about it.” The senator eyed Harlan sharply. “You mentioned that she had some idea in her head. What was that, I wonder?”
“Oh, nothing serious. Just malicious gossip.” Harlan shrugged dismissively. “They chatter too much over at the Tennis League. Unfortunately, sir, Elm appears to have been listening to some pretty outrageous lies.”
“Hmm.” Senator Hathaway sent his son-in-law another long, speculative glance. So something was up, after all.
“It was stupid of me not to have thought of Gioconda,” Harlan said quickly. “I haven’t called there, though. I thought—” he looked across at the senator and hesitated “—I thought it would be better to let her take the initiative.”
“Perhaps.” George Hathaway pondered the matter, not in the least bit fooled by Harlan’s effort to shift the conversation. He didn’t like it, not one little bit. It was so out of character for Elm to act like this. If Harlan had strayed—and it now seemed possible he had—why hadn’t she just talked it over with him, had it out? Maybe sent Harlan to the doghouse for a few weeks, then patched it up, as all women did. And if she was sick, why didn’t she stay close to her family? But as he watched Harlan, it was clear his son-in-law had more to say.
“There’s another thing, sir.” Harlan shifted, plainly uncomfortable.
“Go on,” he said dryly.
“I got a call this morning from Meredith Hunter.”
“Oh?” Something in the younger man’s tone told him this was deeply serious.
“Elm’s asked her to file for a divorce.”
“Divorce?” The senator’s glass came down on the small mahogany table next to him with a heavy thud, and he rose. “Why on earth would Elm want a divorce?”
“I don’t know. It’s utterly crazy. I could hardly believe it when Meredith spoke to me.”
“What did she say?”
“That Elm had asked her to go ahead and prepare the papers,” he said bleakly. “I just can’t believe it, sir. After all these years. I thought we were happy.”
“Are you sure? Something very serious must have occurred for her to take such radical action.”
“Okay, we’ve had a couple of arguments now and then, and, well…I…well, I may not have always been a perfect spouse.” Harlan shifted uneasily. “But nothing to merit this, sir, I assure you.”
George Hathaway quelled a surge of anger at Harlan’s oblique admission of adultery—Elm was his daughter, after all—but even more disturbing was the evidence that his son-in-law had been so foolish. There was too much at risk here to let one’s libido rule one’s actions, he reflected in disgust. His whole political future could be at stake. Smothering the pithy comments he would normally have delivered, he reminded himself that it was water under the bridge—what was needed now was crisis control. He paused thoughtfully. “Meredith Hunter, you say?”
“Yes. At least she’s kept it close to home.”
“Thank God for that.”
“Elm doesn’t seem to realize the implications of what she’s done,” Harlan ventured, “to all of us.” There was a bitter edge to his voice that didn’t escape the senator’s sharp ears.
“Obviously not. Although it’s rather clear you didn’t take into account the consequences your, er…behavior might incur, either,” he responded sarcastically, sending Harlan that piercing look that had been known to make the most stalwart opposition flinch. “But you and I will address that later. For the present, I think it’s best that I have a word with Meredith.”
“A word, sir?”
“Yes. This is a mess and we’ve got to contain it before it goes any further. I’ve known Meredith all her life. Her father, John Rowland, and I go back a long way, as you know. Perhaps she could be persuaded to delay filing, at least until the New Year. By then we must hope Elm will have had time to reflect on her rash decision and come to her senses.”
“You think she might?” The hope in Harlan’s eyes made the senator soften—very slightly. The boy had obviously been playing around. But, he admitted—honest enough to recall his own political past—it was almost inevitable in a position like his. What mattered was that he clearly regretted what he’d done.
“It certainly won’t hurt to try. You leave Meredith to me, Harlan. I’ll get in touch with her first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Thank you, sir,” Harlan said gratefully. “You’ll keep me informed, won’t you? I—I’m pretty anxious.” He straightened his tie, looking uncomfortable and depressed.
“Of course.” Elm shouldn’t have put them in this position, the senator reflected, suddenly irritated. Whatever indiscretion Harlan had committed—and it couldn’t have been that bad, or he would have learned of it from his own sources—she had no right to behave this way, no right at all. And just weeks before Christmas, when she knew very well Harlan would be expected to appear at every public function with her on his arm.
“Have there been questions?” Hathaway lifted a steely brow.
“Well, yes. There have. I’ve taken it upon myself to say she’s resting in a clinic in Switzerland. At least the last part’s true, since that’s where she is. I hope you think that’s all right?”
“Good.” He nodded, eyes narrowed, quickly setting up a strategy to contain the damage. “Everybody knows she’s been out of sorts lately. At least that should keep the gossips quiet. But not for long,” he added with a significant look.
“I know. But Elm’s health and well-being must come first.” Harlan’s brows drew together, forming an intense line over the bridge of his aquiline nose.
“Very right, m’boy, very right indeed. But she also needs to come back home where she belongs. We can’t forget your career, Harlan. You can’t afford to make the kind of mistakes that could cost you farther down the line, just remember that. We must take every precaution.”
“I know, I—” Harlan rubbed a tired hand over his eyes. “Sorry, I’m kind of tired right now. I guess the last few days I haven’t slept too well, that’s all.”
“I understand.” The senator eyed him, bending just a little more. “But I’m sure that in a little while we’ll bring Elm about. A few weeks in Switzerland with Gioconda may be just the right thing to cheer her up.” He nodded sagely.
“You saying that makes me feel a heck of a lot better, sir. I’ve been—well, I guess I don’t need to tell you how worried I’ve been the past few days.” He gave a tentative boyish smile that expressed far more than words.
“So. What’s on your agenda tonight?” the senator asked, feeling it was time to change the subject and lighten up. He’d made his point. Harlan would think twice before being careless again, and it wouldn’t do to make the young man any more stressed than he already was. That would only serve to make matters worse.
“I have the Kaplan party, followed by a dinner at the Staceys’. I wish…well, I guess that’s neither here nor there.”
“Right. How’s young Earl Stacey doing these days? Still thinking of joining the party? He could make a good running mate for you in the future, you know.” The senator sent Harlan a thoughtful glance.
“You know, it’s funny you should mention that, sir. I was thinking the same thing myself as I was driving over here. When I managed to think about anything other than Elm, that is,” he added hastily.
“Have another?” The senator pointed to the empty tumbler in Harlan’s hand.
“Thanks, but I’d better not.” He glanced at his wrist. “I guess I’d better get moving. It’s a black tie event so I’ve got to get home to change.”
The senator heaved out of his chair, a tall, well-built man with fine chiseled features and slate-gray eyes. “I’ll walk you to the door. Patsy and Beau are off to church tonight.”
They reached the massive door and he turned the heavy brass knob before throwing an arm casually over Harlan’s shoulder. “You hang in there, Harlan. And learn from this episode,” he said severely. “There’s no leeway for mistakes in this business. Remember that.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What we need now is a lot of faith, a good strategy and patience. I’m sure that in a little while, Elm will see what nonsense this is, come home and all this will be behind us.”
“I hope you’re right, sir.” Harlan answered fervently. “I’d do anything for that to happen.”
“Well, just make sure this never happens again.” He sent Harlan a brief nod, then watched his son-in-law walk dejectedly down the front steps, past the Roman columns and out into the street where his Cadillac Seville was parked. He seemed chastened, which wouldn’t do the young man any harm. He just hoped his optimistic predictions about Elm were correct. He would definitely talk to Meredith about delaying filing in the morning then take it from there.
Harlan slammed the car door shut and sat for a moment in thought. All in all, it hadn’t gone too badly. He’d gotten away with it, he reflected gleefully. The old man had given him nothing more than a slap on the wrist, and knowing the senator, he’d talk Meredith into delaying filing for the divorce. Which, in turn, would give him some time to sort matters out.
Harlan turned the key in the ignition and glanced at his mobile phone. He’d call Tyler Brock and tell him the good news. Elm wasn’t going to be a problem after all. Still, a wave of unease wafted through him as he drove slowly down the street. There’d been an almost menacing tone in Brock’s voice when he’d insisted Harlan get his wife back. He frowned. It was weird. Then he shrugged, and a few minutes later slowed before his home and swung into the courtyard. Pulling the keys out of the ignition, he ran lightly up the steps of the graceful white-columned mansion, a wedding present from the senator to his daughter, and walked through the high-domed hall to the study. There was no sign of anyone. Perhaps the servants were at the Baptist meeting, too, he realized, annoyed. The Southern Baptists seemed to do more churchgoing than anyone on earth.
Closing the door carefully, he moved across the room to the inlaid English cabinet, opened the mahogany door and quickly unlocked one of the thin brass-handled drawers inside. Then he picked up a small enamel box and tweaked open the lid. Tipping a thin trail of white powder onto the back of his hand, he closed his right nostril with the other. After a long, satisfying sniff, he switched to the other nostril before carefully closing the box and slipping it back into the drawer, which he closed and locked.
Harlan stood for a few moments, eyes closed, and rotated his head as was his habit, working the kinks out of his neck and shoulders. The cocaine began to take effect. He felt a sudden rush of clarity. Around him everything seemed starkly etched, the leaves greener in the garden, the tiniest details hitting him in the eye. He could think better, put things into perspective with the greatest of ease, and the slight wave of fatigue he’d experienced earlier disappeared completely. That felt a hell of a lot better, he reflected, throwing his blazer jauntily over the back of the chocolate leather chair and pouring himself a large whiskey, focusing with new intensity on the senator’s words, recapping every detail, every nuance of the conversation. Earl Stacey, he reflected with a sneer. As pious as a fucking nun. When he chose a running mate, it would be someone of a different caliber. A player. Not that Earl wasn’t a good guy. He was. Just not his style, he concluded, eyes falling on Elm’s portrait above the mantelpiece.
He looked at it for a while, as he had earlier the photo in his congressional office, and sipped thoughtfully, feeling strangely detached. Up until now she’d been very useful and he’d never regretted the marriage. Still, if she went on acting up, she might become a liability. He thought of Tyler Brock’s strange words earlier today, then shrugged. He was probably just imagining things, but he could swear the man’s tone had sounded almost like a threat. Well, fuck him. Brock needed him. He’d just have to see he remained essential.
Removing his gaze from his wife’s picture, he turned his mind to Candice Mercier, that deliciously promiscuous little brunette who’d married old man Mercier not more than a year ago and was already setting her sights on ways of passing the time. Now that Jennifer and her big mouth were out of the scenario, he was only too delighted to oblige. Candice wouldn’t cause any trouble—she didn’t want to lose her meal ticket. For a moment the senator’s words lingered. It was true that he couldn’t afford any mistakes. But hell, a man had to live, didn’t he? And Elm wasn’t exactly a turn-on, what with her IVF treatments and the obsession about having a baby. Heck, he had a hard-enough time getting it up with her. Surely he must be allowed some pleasure?
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