Southern Belle

“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.

Part II

5

Sweat dripped from under the shock of Johnny’s thick black hair, graying at the temples. It trickled past his bright blue eyes, down his lean brown cheeks and settled on his chin. Wiping it summarily with his wristband, John Mortimer Fitzgerald, the tenth Viscount Graney, shot a fleeting glance at the green neon numbers flashing on the digital panel of the state-of-the-art treadmill and jabbed the speed button. The pace upped a fraction and he fell into a faster trot. Another ten minutes or so of pitting himself against the machine might just do the trick, and finally allow him to let go of some of the tension.

Hell of a day, he reflected, feeling his muscles respond to the grueling exercise. Perhaps the correct term was exorcise? He smiled grimly at the pun and, breathing harder, stared out of the huge panoramic window of what had once been the chalet cellar, now expertly converted into a small yet well-equipped gym. He gazed down the white-blanketed slope, past neighboring chalet roofs partially hidden under a relentless flurry of chunky snowflakes that hadn’t stopped all day. Skiing conditions tomorrow would be fabulous. About time he got the hell out of the chalet, away from his mother’s hinting and nagging, his adolescent son Nicky’s permanent sulking and his brother Liam’s obsessive need to work at all times, despite the festive season.

Johnny regulated his breathing and continued to run. He loved Gstaad, the magic of the mountain that he’d known since childhood, but right now he longed for the freedom of Graney, for the peat bogs and the pungent smell of his Irish moors. He wished he could simply grab his old shooting jacket and stride out in the rain across the emerald fields, breathe in that bracing air that he only breathed back home in Ireland, instead of having to dress for dinner. Thank God his mother couldn’t read his mind. He grinned suddenly. Okay, maybe he was a bit biased, as she kept reminding him, but Holy Mother of God, as his countrymen liked to say, he wouldn’t exchange the limestone hills of Kildare for anywhere in the world.

The digital panel announced another three minutes, and Johnny ran on doggedly, determined to relieve the last shreds that the frustration of being cooped up indoors had provoked.

He was still brooding over the argument he’d had earlier with Nicky, he realized, eyes fixed on the lights beginning to twinkle through the twilight in the neighboring chalets. In the distance, he could just make out the MOB—the Montreux-Oberland train—winding its way faithfully up the mountain as it always had, day after day, year after year, with barely a change in the timetable for as long as he could remember.

Absently he pressed the button and the machine slowed its relentless pace while he followed the lights of the train plodding methodically on through the night. At last the mood that had stuck with him ever since he’d stepped on to the plane in Dublin had begun to ease. He smiled. There was something very solid and reassuring about the MOB. It transmitted stability and permanence, as though nothing, not even an earthquake, could change its routine. Its constancy and punctuality were entirely reassuring. He always felt better the minute he sat down in one of the pristine carriages, the gentle jog as the train pulled out of Montreux station. The signal to let go of the stress and let the mountain take over. He always, unfailingly, took the MOB instead of being driven by chauffeur to Gstaad.

The treadmill went into an automatic countdown, then slid to a reluctant halt. Johnny dismounted, wiped his face, then, tossing the towel over his shoulder, made his way to the steam room. Might as well pop in for five minutes before showering and getting changed for dinner. His mother, he recalled, grimacing, had guests coming over.

He stripped, threw his damp shorts and T-shirt on the slatted wooden bench and, wrapping a towel around his waist, opened the heavy glass door and penetrated the thick swirl of hot steam. Lowering himself onto the tiled bench, he sat down, his bronzed, lean, muscled frame supported by the upper bench and closed his eyes. Ah, that felt good. Already he could feel his muscles releasing, his whole body beginning to relax. His thoughts traveled home to Graney Castle, to Blue Lavender whinnying in his stall and all the plans he had in mind for him.

Sweat formed on his brow and limbs and he relaxed further, letting the image of Blue Lavender passing the winning post by several lengths take hold. At three years old, he was finally ready to realize Johnny’s dreams. Already last year he’d picked up the Dewhurst Stakes, run over seven furlongs in England, meeting all his expectations and more. He’d bred a few Thoroughbred champions and had loved each one of them, but for some reason he couldn’t explain, Blue Lavender meant more to him than all the others put together. Perhaps because he’d set such ambitious goals for him.

He leaned forward, flexed his arms and sank his elbows on his sweating thighs, holding the position for several seconds before the steam became suffocating and he knew it was time to get out. Closing the door behind him, he splashed straight into the small tiled pool of ice-cold water next to the steam room.

“Aargh!” He let out a groan of pain and pleasure while absorbing the shock, followed by the deliciously agonizing impact when he ducked. Thirty seconds later he stepped out refreshed. After a hot shower, he rubbed himself down with one of the huge white monogrammed terry towels that lay rolled in neat stacks on the pine shelves surrounding him. He glanced wryly at all the exquisitely packaged designer accessories, soaps and shower gels, creams and the rest that his American mother insisted on keeping available in what she liked to called the “fitness area.” Rubbing his hair, he smiled benignly at her antics. There was even an in-house masseuse on twenty-four-hour call when she had house-guests.

Pulling on one of the heavy terry robes, lips still twitching fondly at his parent’s whims, he regretted the sharp way he’d spoken to her earlier when she’d commented on his fight with Nicky. He knew she meant well, that it hurt her feelings when he snubbed her. For beneath that regally composed front lay a deep, sensitive and caring woman who had her family’s best interests at heart. Particularly his son’s.

He glanced at the clock on the wall. Almost seven. She’d be upstairs now in the living room, ensconced among the tapestry cushions of the deep velvet sofa that Juan Pablo, her Palm Beach decorator, had insisted on. She was probably wearing one of her endless collection of plush tracksuits and her habitual array of diamonds. Her feet would be tucked under the mink-and-cashmere throw before the flames of the blazing wood fire crackling in the grate, the latest copy of W magazine resting in her lap.