Alexandra Waring (30 page)

“If you could just sign that thing,” Jessica said, pointing to Alexandra’s note, “we could send Alexandra, Jr., here back to West End and I could join you for lunch. Sorry,” she said in an aside to Kate, patting her shoulder. “I know your name is Kate. I meant it as a compliment.” Then she looked back at Langley, rested her hands on the table and leaned forward to say, in a very low voice with unmistakable innuendo in it, “Or wouldn’t you enjoy being with me?”

Langley would have enjoyed the moment more had Kate not audibly gasped and then giggled, and had Mr. Graham in his blue and green bow tie not been smiling at him from across the table.

“Do you understand what this note is about?” Langley asked Jessica, swallowing, trying not to look at her mouth (which at the moment had her tongue running over it).

“I know it makes no difference to me,” Jessica said, “not with the contract I have.”

“So Alexandra’s talked to you,” Langley said.

“Maybe for the last time if this doesn’t get straightened out. Look, Mr. Mitchell,” Jessica said, tapping one long finger on the table, “nobody knows what’s going on except that Alexandra’s upset and it has something to do with me so I want you to sign that thing so everybody at West End stops looking at me like I’m Typhoid Mary or something. I want to get to work, Mr. Mitchell!” she added loudly, pounding the table in such a way as to make the silverware jump and a couple of diners as well.

Langley looked back down at Alexandra’s note. He took out a pen from the inside pocket of his jacket, pulled the cap off, turned the barrel, stuck the cap on the end and sat there a moment, pen poised, thinking. And then, writing slowly and deliberately, on the bottom half of Alexandra’s note, he wrote:

Alexandra,

Of course DBS News International will handle foreign on newsworthy Jessica Wright material. And however ironic it may seem to you now, I hope one day soon I may fully explain to you how the restructuring of Cassy’s responsibilities is, in fact, a sign of our deepest commitment to you, our unshakable faith in you, and of our pledge to offer strong and lasting support to DBS News as a whole.

Until then, I hope you will trust me.

Langley

And then he dated it, folded the paper up, slipped it back in the envelope and handed it to Kate, feeling pretty good about it. If that wasn’t an open declaration of support, then what was?

Kate went back to West End with the note and Jessica sat next to him in the banquette, swiftly drinking one vodka tonic down and ordering another. When that arrived, she said, “Well, Mr. Graham, it looks as though Mr. Mitchell’s a nice guy after all.” She leaned into Langley’s side as she said this, smiling rather sweetly (he thought). “I am so relieved, you don’t know,” she said, eyes briefly fixing on his chest and then coming back up. “I do so hate family fights, don’t you?”

Langley laughed—a little nervously—glancing over at Mr. Graham, who was looking quite perky and festive after his glass of sherry. “As a matter of fact, I do,” Langley said, meaning it, looking into her eyes and wondering why he was looking into her eyes since he knew better. Idle notions about Cassy were at least sane and alluring. But the Terror of Tucson? Was he ready for this?

“This is so nice,” Jessica sighed, looking around the restaurant and sipping her drink. “I haven’t been here since I was a little girl, with my grandfather.”

“Perhaps I knew him,” Mr. Graham said.

“Harold Wright?” Jessica asked.

“Of
The Saturday Evening Post?
” Mr. Graham said.

Jessica, opening her mouth, just stared at him. Then she looked at Langley and back at Mr. Graham again.

“Oh, yes,” Mr. Graham said, chuckling, “I knew old Hare-Hare. He was here quite regularly.”

“Hare-Hare!” Jessica said, excited, bouncing up and down in the banquette. “That was his nickname—you really did know him!”

“When you’re my age,” Mr. Graham said, “you tend to know a great many people, Miss Wright.”

Jessica grew more and more festive as the lunch went on, talking with Mr. Graham, telling funny stories about herself and her family, leaning into Langley every ten seconds or so as if to make sure he was awake and paying attention. She needn’t have worried. He was quite awake and quite content to eat the delicious food, sip the icy-cold white wine and, by the second bottle, feel Jessica’s hand periodically resting on his thigh.

Somewhere along the line the lunch had turned unreal. It had turned into a slow-motion, warm, fuzzy dream where this splendidly warm, buxom creature next to him promised all sorts of seductive, wonderful times if only this lunch could last forever, or at least last long enough to find out what her hand on his thigh might want to do next. Langley very badly wanted to stay in this dream, to wander on, following this woman who was making him laugh and smile, who was making him feel like nothing mattered but that he might just this once—just once in his life—forget his responsibilities, forget everybody else and simply be himself, this laughing self, this man who was drinking too much wine but not caring, this guy who was thrilled by this young woman beside him, by this whole luncheon, by this whole idea that people found him worth laughing with, talking to
…
flirting with.

Making love with?

Oh, wouldn’t that be great?

What a wonderful lunch this was, languishing in the fantasy of simply asking Jessica to spend the afternoon with him in bed somewhere, making love and laughing and feeling as warm and fuzzy and content as they did right here, at the table, the two of them, sitting here, thighs pressing against each other, her hand rubbing his leg—what? What? When had this started?
Don’t think. For once in your fucking life, don’t think, Peterson.
And so he drifted back into what it might be like to make love to Jessica, how wonderful it would be to make love with someone who would not go crazy, screaming and yelling and running around the house threatening to kill herself. And he drifted further, leaving Belinda far far far behind, continuing in the fantasy of Jessica—what those breasts must be like he could not even imagine
…
Oh, yes, he could, imagine those breasts—certainly, if he kept on like this, staring and getting caught, he would be in her blouse, yes, certainly.

He felt her hand again on his leg and he looked at her. She was smiling—no, laughing—but then the check was there and Langley noticed that everyone else in the dining room was gone. He looked at his watch. It was almost four.

Langley reluctantly signed the check, feeling depressed. By the time they were downstairs, outside, standing under the awning on 52nd Street, his warm fuzziness had turned into a headache. Jessica shook hands with Mr. Graham, explained she had to go on to the Plaza, thanked Langley for the lunch, and then, just after Langley directed Mr. Graham to where his car and driver were waiting, she grabbed his arm, whispered in his ear, “Do you want to come with me?” and then stepped back, looking at Langley with the most innocent of expressions.

Langley was shocked. Maybe a little appalled. No—it was more like scared out of his wits.
Jesus, now? Just do it? Now? After all these years, I just go and do it now? In the afternoon? With the Terror of Tucson?
“Thank you, thank you very, very much,” he heard himself say, touching her arm, “but I’m afraid I can’t.”

She shrugged, smiling, digging her hands into her blazer pockets, backing down the sidewalk. Then she waved to Mr. Graham. “Now don’t you let this wild guy take you to Atlantic City or anything.”

Mr. Graham laughed.

And Langley laughed, dazed, watching Jessica skip down the street, wondering if what had happened could have possibly really happened.

21
In Which Jackson Flees Alexandra and
Flies to Hilleanderville

Jackson knew how upset he was because, for the first time in a very long time, he actually wanted to go to Hilleanderville. Alexandra had lost her temper this morning and she had lost it at him, and something had profoundly changed between them because of it.

No. What had changed was his feeling for her.

No, what had changed was that he knew his feelings for Alexandra, romantically speaking, were not as unique as he had thought.

Oh, fuck
, he thought, looking out the Gulfstream window.
It couldn’t have been just another obsession, could it?

But if he really cared for Alexandra in a special way, then why did he just want her to go away and leave him alone? And why did he feel so incredibly disappointed and depressed that Alexandra seemed to be just as scared and insecure as everybody else, only she hid it better?

And why did she suddenly seem so young?

When Alexandra arrived this morning in his office, she had been her usual buoyant, lovely self, cheerfully greeting him and throwing herself down in a chair, wondering what Jackson wanted to see her about. And so Jackson had started to explain about consolidating DBS News and “The Jessica Wright Show” under Mrs. Cochran and then Alexandra had been on her feet, her face scarlet, firing questions at him so fast that after a while he didn’t even know what he was saying, and then, suddenly, Alexandra had slammed both her hands down on his desk.

“I
never
thought you would betray me,
never
,” she said. “And if you feel that I’ve betrayed you in some way, that I’ve failed to pay some kind of personal debt to you—then you’ve
got
to put it on the table now. Because you
can’t
”—she slammed his desk again—”take your personal feelings about me out on DBS News—by endangering it. Do you understand me? I won’t let you do it!”

“I’m not taking anything out on anybody,” he said, “and I’m not endangering DBS News—”

“But you
are!
” she screamed.

They looked at each other. Alexandra seemed as stunned by her scream as he was.

And then she whirled around and flew out of his office, slamming the door behind her.

Sitting there in the plane, Jackson felt miserable. Where there had been fun and excitement and the possibility of happiness now there was only a sea of problems. Yesterday Alexandra had been a goal; today he wanted to avoid her forever because he felt so guilty. Because he realized, perhaps truly for the first time, just how much DBS News meant to Alexandra and how devastated her life and career would be if it failed. And he realized how terrified Alexandra was that it would fail—and that she would fail.

Wasn’t it strange that only yesterday he had thought she was fearless.

Wasn’t it strange that it had never really bothered him before about what shaky financial ground he had built DBS News on.

But then, none of it had seemed quite real, had it? It never was during the chase. Meeting Alexandra and launching the network a year early.

And
…

And—

Jackson held his face in his hand a moment.

And wasn’t it true that, if Alexandra had slept with him in the beginning, he never would have gone to such lengths for her and DBS News? Isn’t that how his obsessions had always worked before? That they lasted as long as he was happily in pursuit, and he was only happy when obsessed?

No, no
, he told himself, dropping his hand,
you’re going overboard as usual, you wanted Alexandra as the anchor of DBS News
.

But would he have ever gotten into this mess had the anchor been a man?

Would he have?

No, he wouldn’t have. He wouldn’t have launched it a year early and he wouldn’t have—

Oh, what did it matter? If DBS News could work—and it had every chance of working if the board didn’t interfere with it—Alexandra Waring was the one to make it fly. And he genuinely believed she could do it and that
they
could do it. And so what if Alexandra was mad at him? She’d get over it. Everybody was always mad at him, sooner or later, and they always got over it—so why did he feel so damned depressed now? What was so wrong now that wasn’t wrong before?

Because you know you’re not in love with Alexandra
, he thought, looking out the window.
You’d like to sleep with her, but you’re not in love with her and you don’t even really know her. It was just another one of your obsessions and so now you don’t have anything to do in your head, nothing to do but feel how goddam lonely this life is and how work is nothing but endless, unsolvable problems and disappointments and everybody complaining and now there’s not a goddam thing in this world to look forward to that means a goddam thing
.

As the plane landed at Hartsfield, he felt more depressed than ever.

“Well, well, what a surprise,” Cordelia said, voice booming down the great hall of the Mendolyn Street house, “looky who’s here. Better let him in, Salissy, before he starts selling snake oil to the neighbors.”

The maid, Salissy, stepped back from the door, indicating that Jackson was now welcome in his family’s house. “Hi, Cordie,” he said, striding over the black and white tiles of the hall and—though at five-eleven she was no featherweight—picking fifty-year-old Cordelia up off the floor to hug her.

When he set her back down, Cordelia looked at her brother with more than a hint of skepticism on her face. But then she smiled, giving him a warm kiss on the cheek. “I don’t know what you’re selling, brother,” she said, “but I hope you’re genuinely glad to see me because I am glad to see you. And you just missed Belinda.”

“Belinda was still here?” he said, surprised, walking with Cordelia into the living room.

“Yes sir, she was. I wanted her to stay for a while longer, but she left as soon as her suitcase got here. No!” she said, making a face and swatting the air with her hand. “I will not talk about that case one more time! Just take it from me, she found it and she left.” She took his hand. (The living room was enormous and so one did have to stroll a bit to get across it.) “I don’t know what is going on up there in New York with Langley,” Cordelia said, stopping to face her brother, “but, Jackie, you’ve got to talk to him. Baby B’s just getting worse and worse, and she says Langley doesn’t care.”

“He cares,” Jackson said. “Believe me, Cordie, he cares. I was in Palm Beach with them—”

“Shhh,” Cordelia said, adding in a whisper, “we don’t have to let everybody know our problems.”

Somewhere in the house a telephone was ringing.

“I was just with them the other day,” Jackson whispered. “And I couldn’t put up with Belinda—I don’t know how Lang does it. One minute she tells him to go away, the next minute she’s screaming for him, then she packs her bags and leaves—”

“She says he won’t spend any time with her,” Cordelia said.

“That’s not true,” Jackson said. “I was sitting right there the other morning—Langley wanted to come down here with her for a few days and she told him she didn’t want him to come. She told him to go back to New York.”

Cordelia frowned and folded her arms. “I can’t believe he’s not part of the problem, Jackie. The only time he’s around is when she’s—well, when she’s not right. And the only time she seems to be right is when he’s not around—only now she never seems to be quite right. Noreen says she thinks, if this keeps up, she’s going to have to be put somewhere.”

“Oh, Cordie,” Jackson muttered, angry, “Noreen just says that to get attention. Belinda’s fine. She’s just got a few problems to work out.”

“Excuse me, Mrs. Paine?” Salissy said from across the living room.

“Yes, what is it, Salissy?”

“It’s the airline, ma’am, they want to make sure Mrs. Peterson got her suitcase.”

“That suitcase again!” Cordelia cried, clapping her hands over her ears. “I swear, if anyone brings it up again I’m gonna lose my mind!”

“Tell them she got it,” Jackson told Salissy. “Right?” he said, laughing, to Cordelia, pulling her arms down.

“And hallelujah,” Cordelia said. “Belinda went on and on about that accursed bag—that’s all she talked about from the minute she got here. ‘Where’s my bag, have they found my bag, did they call about my bag?’” she mimicked, gesturing wildly with her hands. Then she folded her arms again and looked at Jackie. “Somebody walked off with one of her bags at the airport and she got absolutely hysterical.”

“What was in it?” Jackson said.

“Oh, cosmetics and things. Have you ever? I don’t know, Jackie, I’m beginning to think the twins are right. Belinda must have sixty million of her own and there she was, carrying on about this stupid bag. And then—I haven’t even told you the rest of it, and you better be glad that I’ll spare you the repetition of it because it was enough to drive any sane person crazy—Belinda called up to New York and had her maid—her
maid
, Jackie, imagine—she had her
maid
fly all the way down here to bring her more cosmetics! I said, ‘Belinda, you’re not even forty years old, what do you need makeup for? You’ve been a beautiful girl all your life.’ But did she listen to me? Of course not.”

Jackson did not like the sound of this. It sounded like Noreen sending servants flying around the country for lipsticks—not Belinda.

They proceeded toward the back of the house, toward the sun room where Daddy would be, and on the way Cordelia gave him an update on the household: her husband, Kitty, was away on business (trying to put a syndicate together to buy the PTL Club); Cordie’s son, Eziekiel (Freaky Zekey), was on some kind of business in Las Vegas; Little El’s kids—Kirky and Bipper—and their spouses and children were supposed to come visit in June; Big El was being impossible as usual (Cordelia still did not know how all these liquor bottles kept finding their way into the house); and Cordelia herself did not know how she was, since it had been so long since anybody had bothered to ask, thank you.

“Why, Daddy, look who’s here,” Cordelia said, stepping into the sun room.

“Well I’ll be a son of a bitch,” Big El said in his wheelchair. “How are ya, Johnny Jim?”

“It’s Jackson, Daddy,” Cordelia said, marching over to swipe the mug out of her father’s hand and smell it. “I swear, that Lucille must be running moonshine,” she muttered, taking the mug with her. “Jackie, bring Daddy into the kitchen and I’ll fix you some coffee and muffins. I just made some blueberry this morning.”

“Hi, Daddy,” Jackson said, bending to kiss his father on the cheek.

Big El was about to turn eighty and no one could figure how he could still be alive and kicking after all the drinking he had done over the years, but there he was, looking a bit like an old crocodile with a big reddish-purple nose. “I knew it was you,” Big El said.

Jackson unlocked the brakes on the wheelchair and pushed his father out of the sun room, through the breezeway, through the hall, through the breakfast room and, finally, into the kitchen. This had always been Jackson’s favorite room because his mother, when he was young, had made it a kind of battalion headquarters, the one room big enough and indestructible enough to accommodate all her family’s yelling and fighting while she relaxed from a hard day at the office. Alice May had loved to cook and had loved this room, with its sixteen-foot ceilings and huge windows at one end, looking out at the hills. It still smelled wonderfully of old wood and good food and spices, and it had everything in the world, it seemed, hanging from the walls somewhere—copper pots, wire whisks, colanders—and had two six-burner stoves, three sinks, huge wooden counters and open shelves, and, by the windows, two large round wood tables.

Cordelia was a great cook also, although now she kept a part-time cook. The cook’s name was Lucille and was the same Lucille that Cordelia now suspected of running moonshine on the premises.

Jackson parked Big El at one of the tables and sat down next to him while Cordelia set about making coffee.

“How’s Barbara? Why doesn’t she come to see us anymore?” Big El said.

Jackson looked to Cordelia, whose expression was sympathetic. “Now, Daddy,” she said, looking at him, “you know Barbara’s been dead for going on seven years.” Her eyes shifted back to Jackson. “I’m sorry—that darn Lucille’s been here today.”

Big El looked at Cordelia and said, “I
like
Lucille. I wish Lucille lived here. Lucille loves me.”

“Ha!” Cordelia said. “And the South won the war.” She came over and plunked down a basket of warm muffins on the table, looked at her father and added, in a softer voice, “Unless you’re thinkin’ of my little friend Lucille from grade school, Daddy. She was always very sweet on you.”

“I shoulda killed
that
little Lucille with rat poison,” Big El growled. “Told your mother I goosed her in the pantry.”

“She did not, Daddy,” Cordelia said in her normal voice, moving back to the stove. “That was that girl Gitchy, from McCaysville, the girl who was supposed to wash the dishes and never did.”

“Well,” Big El announced, reaching for a muffin, “somebody did.”