Читать книгу Southern Belle - Fiona Hood-Stewart, Fiona Hood-Stewart - Страница 12

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?

Upstairs in the large marble bathroom he showered, then rubbed himself in one of the huge terry towels, sleeked his chestnut hair back and flexed his arm. He felt a new surge of energy induced by the cocaine and the shower and turned toward the mirror. He was in good shape, he noticed, pulling in his tummy, glancing sideways, then flashing a satisfied smile at himself. It was a killer smile that had never failed to rake in the votes. Lately, since Elm’s disappearance, he’d added an underlying touch of melancholy that would make every woman in the room wish she could be the one to console him. It was sending Elm’s ratings plummeting. Serve the bitch right for making a public fuss over something that should have been wrapped up between them.

His clothes had been carefully laid out on the bed. Reaching for his starched shirt, Harlan slipped it on, then did up his engraved cuff links in the lamplight of the huge master bedroom, with its stately mahogany bed and valuable antiques that had Elm and her heritage written all over them. His wife had excellent taste, he admitted grudgingly as he pulled on his pants, eyes narrowing as he approached the mirror to fix his bow tie. But Elm’s irreproachable taste reminded him yet again that the house—and every damn thing in it—was in her name, just as were the accounts at the bank. Sure, he had access and was made to feel in charge. But he knew damn well that one false move and the bank manager would be on the phone to the senator so fast he wouldn’t have time to breathe.

He adjusted the bow tie, gave it a final twist, then shrugged into the jacket of his tux and took another look at himself, pleased with the effect. Then he leaned forward, making sure his nostrils were free of any traces of white powder. You could never be too careful, he reflected, eyes narrowed. Then suddenly the day’s troubles faded and he felt better. He looked good, felt good, was on a fast track to the top. Just as Jack Kennedy had looked good and been on a fast track to stardom. A pity he didn’t have Elm to parade on his arm, he thought as he tripped lightly down the stairs, but that would all sort itself out. Elm, like Jackie, would be brought to heel and the waves of discontent would subside once more. Harlan smiled as he popped his cell phone into the pocket of his cashmere coat, threw a white silk scarf nonchalantly around his neck, and left the house.

As he descended the front steps his mouth took on a sardonic twist. Elm and her goody-goody ways. He didn’t know what the hell she was up to in Gstaad, and cared even less, probably gossiping with that bitch Gioconda, whom he couldn’t stand. But of the two of them, he gloated, he’d bet money he was in for a more satisfying night.