Southern Belle

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.

Well, that was “Mother,” as she insisted on being called. She’d never been Mummy. All the years she’d been married to a peer—albeit, an Irish one—hadn’t in any way diminished her all-American verve, Johnny reflected, tenderly amused, as he walked up the stairs. A ship in full sail was how he thought of her, with her gray hair perfectly coiffed, her manicured hands sporting jewelry consistent with her age and position. And one had to give it to her, he recognized. Widow of the ninth Viscount Graney, who had been the best Thoroughbred breeder in Ireland, and sole heir to the Pennsylvania Riley steel fortune, Grace was a legend in her own right. She had, he thought, peering at her now through the half-open double doors leading into the vast wood-paneled drawing room, the air of a woman entirely at ease with what and who she was. As though sensing his presence, she looked up and lowered her glasses.

“Hello, darling. Did you have a good workout?”

“Yes, thanks. And a steam.” He moved across the room.

“Well, that’s more than your brother has done,” she remarked tartly. “I’d better warn you. He’s having a fit.”

“Oh?” Johnny flopped in the sofa opposite and hooked his ankles up on the ottoman. “Why?”

“The Brandt stock fell several points.” She rolled her eyes and sighed. “Despite this tragedy, do you think he might be persuaded to remain here for the holidays as any normal civilized person would? You know, honey, I’m becoming increasingly concerned about Liam,” she continued, brows creasing. “Instead of letting up, he seems to be more and more obsessed with work.”

“I shouldn’t worry,” Johnny murmured mildly, avoiding being caught in a discussion concerning his sibling.

“That’s all fine and dandy for you to say,” Grace sniffed, “but I do. Of course I worry. It’s a mother’s duty to worry.” She eyed him severely. “And what about Christmas, may I ask? Have you two lost every shred of family awareness? Liam with his stocks, you with those wretched horses you never want to be apart from, and Nicky sulking all day like a bad-tempered bear cub.” She waved a disparaging hand. “There are times I wonder what I ever did to deserve such an ungrateful bunch of scallywags.”

“Now, Mother,” Johnny murmured soothingly, then leaned over and pecked her cheek. “We’re all here, aren’t we? Came at your beck and call as usual, dancing attendance as it were.”

“Don’t give me any of that blasé British lip of yours, John Graney.” She reached for his hand and squeezed it affectionately. “But, yes, I’m glad you’re all here. Christmas wouldn’t be the same otherwise. After all, it’s important to be together as a family. Particularly as you missed Thanksgiving,” she added, sending him a meaningful look.

“Mother, first, I’m Irish and second, we’ve been over this countless times for the past month,” Johnny sighed patiently, drawing his hand away. “Blue Lavender had a swollen tendon. There was no way I could have left Graney right then.”

“Of course not. Since you value horses above your family.”

Johnny sent her a humorous glance, knowing how she loved to exercise emotional blackmail. Neither was he about to enter into another discussion about Graney, his horses—Blue Lavender in particular—their value and the fact that they constituted as important a business as any of the others in the Graney-Riley empire. Grace simply refused to understand. She hadn’t even when his father was alive.

“Tell me about Liam’s latest adventures with the stock market,” he grinned, redirecting her thoughts and stretching his long legs closer to the fire. “By the way, have you seen Nicky anywhere?”

“He came in with a friend a couple of hours ago. I think they’d been snowboarding. Dear, far be it from me to interfere, but don’t you think you should spend more quality time with him? He’s your son, after all, and he doesn’t see you that often since he’s here at boarding school the better part of the year.”

“Mother, he’s sixteen years old, for Christ’s sake. The last thing he wants is me hanging on to his apron strings,” Johnny exclaimed, annoyed at being reminded of his paternal obligations.

“No, I guess not. Still…” she pondered, wishing as always that Nicky’s mother, Marie Ange, hadn’t died so young, or that Johnny could have found himself another wife as suitable as his first. Her grandson needed a mother, as well as his father, and the battles waging between the two of late concerned her. “By the way, what’s her name—that woman—called.” She waved a bejeweled hand disdainfully and sniffed.

“Mother, you know perfectly well what her name is.” He clasped his hands behind his neck, teeth flashing.

“Yes, well, that may be so, but I don’t choose to use it.” Grace exchanged W for the Wall Street Journal and, correcting the position of her designer reading glasses, pretended to read. She had little time for any of Johnny’s girlfriends, particularly this Brazilian one, who in her opinion had lasted too long.

“Don’t worry. She won’t be around this year. Actually, I’m very surprised she called. Probably wanted her stuff shipped from the flat in Eaton Terrace,” he remarked, swinging a leg over the arm of the chair and throwing an empty matchbox into the fire.

“What’s that?” Liam walked into the room, clicking off his cell phone. “Did I hear you say Lucia wasn’t coming to Gstaad? Why?”

“Nicky pissed her off.”

“Kindly mind your language,” Grace reproved automatically, then lowered her glasses, intrigued.

“Spill the beans.” Liam sat next to his mother on the sofa and quirked a thick sandy brow. “Lucia never misses a chance to come to Gstaad. Must’ve been serious.”

“It was. So you can breathe easy, Mother.”

“Goodness, there must be good fairies after all,” Grace murmured, lowering the paper.

“Come on,” Liam urged, “shoot.”

“Nicky went with me to St. Barthes during his school break. One of the horses took ill—it was just before the Arc de Triomphe—so I hopped on a plane to Paris early. Next thing I know I’m receiving hysterical phone calls and all hell has let loose back on the island.” He glanced at his mother, saw a gleam in her eye and, knowing how she loathed his sophisticated Brazilian mistress, conceded, “You can relax, Mother, she’s history.”

“What made that happen?” Grace leaned forward, agog with curiosity.

“Nicky found a snake in the garden. He wrapped it in tissue paper, slipped it into a Cartier gift box and had it delivered by courier…with my business card attached,” he added with a groan.

“No!” Grace let out a gleeful chortle.

Liam laughed. “Good old Nicky.”

“You can laugh,” Johnny said with feeling, “but I can assure you it was less amusing at the time.”

“I’ll bet. Cost you, huh?” Liam inquired, amused, peering through his glasses and switching the phone back on, unable to resist the temptation of glancing again at his messages.

“Put it this way, it turned into rather an expensive operation,” Johnny muttered dryly.

“Well, if you’re truly rid of her, all I can say is bravo, Nicky,” Grace rejoined. “I’ll have to give him extra allowance,” she murmured, the thought of Lucia’s perfectly manicured hands eagerly unpacking the snake too delicious to resist.

“Brandt stock’s dropped another ten points,” Liam muttered, frowning. “Still, I reckon it’s hit an all-time low.” He nodded decisively. “I’ll call Rod and tell him to buy a chunk before the end of the day.”

“Oh, Liam, leave that wretched telephone alone,” Grace huffed, glancing disapprovingly at Liam’s precious tri-band. “Now, Johnny, I hope you took Nicky to task about this snake business.” Grace tried to sound disapproving but was obviously having a hard time. “It was very bad manners, after all.”

“Mother, you’re such a hypocrite,” Johnny chided, eyes twinkling as he lowered his feet to the carpet.

“I certainly am not. I may not like the woman, but Nicky still had no business sending her a reptile.” She winced at the thought.

“But it’s so apt,” Liam remarked, tongue in cheek. He winked at his brother and continued checking stock prices. “Ah, here’s one that’s lookin’ good. Johnny, wanna buy some—”

“I don’t want to buy a damn thing, Liam. You buy enough for all of us put together,” Johnny interrupted, exasperated. “Believe it or not, this is meant to be a holiday—”

“Vacation, dear—”

“Whatever, Mother. Either way, it does not figure in Liam’s vocabulary.”

“Okay, okay, I was just asking.” Liam raised both hands.

Grace let out a resigned sigh that expressed her feelings better than words. At thirty-eight and thirty-seven, her sons were able to take care of their own lives. Still, it was impossible not to wish and worry. Absently shifting the ornaments and ashtrays on the coffee table, she studied them, first Liam, then Johnny. Liam worked far too hard taking the many companies of the Graney-Riley group to further heights, while Anne Shellenberg, his girlfriend, seemed perfectly content to have reached thirty-five unmarried and COO of some company whose name Grace couldn’t recall. After five years of hoping, both she and Avis Shellenberg—Anne’s WASP mother—had long since given up dreaming of wedding bells chiming in the centuries-old chapel at Graney castle.

With an imperceptible turn of the head, she glanced at Johnny, the elder of the two, still lounging in the armchair and conversing with his brother, and her heart melted. He was her firstborn, the spitting image of his handsome father, those identical piercing Kerry blue eyes laughing as he spoke, and that glorious jet-black hair graying the same way at the temples. He was what, in her neck of the woods, was termed as Black Irish. So Celtic and handsome, charming and kind, just like his dad. Yet he lived like a semirecluse, spending the better half of his existence boxed up at Graney Castle raising those wretched horses, just like his father before him.

But of course, he’d never been truly happy since Marie Ange had died on that regrettable trip to Africa. That was still the crux of the problem. He could tell her he’d gotten over it until he was blue in the face, but she, his mother, would never believe him. She knew that he still blamed himself for the fatal tragedy after all these years. He did a good job of hiding behind a battery of shields erected over the years, mind you, but Grace knew better. And oh, how she wished he and Nicky could get over the barriers that all of a sudden seemed to have popped up between them. She groaned inwardly. Everything had seemed to be working out just fine until Nicky had hit his teens. Then suddenly it was one conflict after the other, leaving Grace dangling on emotional tenterhooks.

As she often did, she wished that Gerald, her late husband, was around to give her counsel. Raising two boys on her own hadn’t always been easy. Not that she hadn’t managed fine on her own; of course, she had. And was proud of the result, she reflected, smiling fondly at her boys. They were as different as oil from water. Liam was all Riley—he even looked just like her own plebeian Irish father, not too tall, sandy-haired and square-shouldered—and Johnny the opposite, tall, dark and aristocratic, a true blue-blooded Graney. But their differences had worked out fine, for she’d raised them well. She just wished Liam would let up a little and enjoy life, instead of being such an incurable workaholic.