Bingo (22 page)

I sank into an ornate gloom. My sense of my own self was taking a beating. I wasn’t the kind of person to have an affair with a married person, much less my best friend’s husband. Ending the affair didn’t change the fact that I’d done it. I thought about going into therapy, but therapy won’t cure a character defect or make the immoral moral. What I had done was profoundly immoral and no amount of self-understanding was going to make my action less reprehensible.

I could barely make out my house as I searched for the driveway. A heavily diffused light over the front porch was my guide.

I went upstairs and crawled into bed. I was almost as miserable as I was on the day Dad died. Pewter snuggled in next to me.

The Greeks wrote, “Whom the gods wish to destroy they first make mad.” I would amend that to “Whom the gods wish to destroy they first make fall in love.” I used to think romantic love was a neurosis shared by two, a supreme foolishness. I no longer thought that. There’s nothing foolish in loving anyone. Thinking you’ll be loved in return is what’s foolish.

A
re you happy? I’m miserable.”

“It’s April fifteenth. The entire population of the United States is miserable.” Mr. Pierre sighed, then leaned over and kissed my cheek. “
Ma cherie
, you did the right thing and I’m proud of you.”

Although I still felt miserable I had the comfort of knowing that he recognized my sacrifice. “I wasn’t exactly out marching with the Seven Deadly Sins and I don’t think I’m going straight to hell—but I am relieved.”

“How’d Jack like it?” He placed a sizzling omelet before me.

“He didn’t.” I took a bite of the omelet and felt sick. “Don’t be angry with me if I can’t eat your cooking. You’re the best cook in Runnymede but I’m not hungry.”

“Nonsense. I’ve seen you in the depths before, remember? You don’t eat. Now I am going to make certain that you keep your strength up.” He waved his hand at me to eat up; the gold family-crest ring on his third finger seemed more worn than I remembered. “Nickel, do your duty.”

“Duty is something you expect other people to do.” However, I consumed the entire omelet and did not feel the better for it.

“Know what you need, darling?” He buttered cornbread for me.

“I need two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

“You need a mate. Not a lover but a mate. Someone who is just for you. I know Jack loves you. Who doesn’t?”

I could think of scores of people who didn’t love me, including the loonies who wrote in response to the editorial columns, but I decided to pretend I was universally loved this morning and let Mr. Pierre continue.

“You need to be someone’s Number One and vice versa. Do you realize that your entire life—and I am generously not counting the years—you’ve played solitaire. I mean, Jack loves you, yes, but Regina is his Number One. That’s what marriage means—even if one does stray off the reservation. And as for Julia, well, she loves you but Chessy was her Number One and that’s as it should be.”

“I think Mother is her own Number One.” Much as I loved my mother, I considered her self-centered, a thought I’d kept to myself until now.

“Piffle. She’s constructively selfish. She lets you know where she stands.”

“On my neck and quite close to her self-interest.”

“Doesn’t everybody? You’re being hard on her because she’s your mother, ungrateful child, and you had that silly argument over the paint box. And don’t get off the subject. You do that all the time when you don’t want to discuss something emotional, and I emphasize the word
emotional
. Detachment is fine for your profession but not so fine for your life.”

“I’ve heard that before.”

“But have you listened?”

Obviously, I had not. I became respectfully silent, ate the cornbread, and then spoke. “When I find my true love you’ll be the first to know.”

“I certainly hope so. What are friends for?” He checked himself in the mirror across the room. “Time for a rinse.” He patted his hair.

“Losing your lilac tint, are you? Actually, why do you do that to your hair? It’s beautiful, thick, wavy hair.”

“I do it because if I’m going to be hung for a sheep I might as well be hung for a wolf.”

I understood perfectly. What a pity some people needed to call him a faggot behind his back and what a pity he needed to waste energy responding to them. Tinting his hair lilac was his response, and like the man, it was assertive, funny, and oddly touching. Maybe I loved Mr. Pierre at that moment more than I loved even myself. I kissed him and braced myself for my interview at Racedown, the ancestral home of the Rifes.

As I put my hand on the doorknob, Mr. Pierre called out to me: “Until you have a mate, I have another suggestion.”

“What’s that?”

“Buy a little retreat up in the mountains away from here. You need a getaway, a place to restoreth one’s soul.”

“I haven’t got the money.”

“You don’t need much money for a cabin with no running water. You could call it Uncle Tom’s Cabinet.”

The countryside surrounding Racedown embraced me. Soft, rolling hills with patches of thick woods imparted a sense that God was in her heaven and all was right with the world. The willows sported their spring green while the buds on other trees glowed with that dark red prior to bursting open. Racedown, a huge stone mansion added to over the centuries, commanded a ridge running roughly parallel to the west. If you continued to drive west you would run into the mountains called a variety of names according to the locale. Probably the name by which these mountains are best known is their Virginia appellation, the Blue Ridge. From Racedown you couldn’t see the mountains but you could see the foothills grow in size as you gazed west, and if you turned around and looked east, the land slowly became calmer and flatter, a sea of rich grass.

Upon seeing the Chrysler, other drivers got off the road the entire four miles to Racedown. The driveway into Racedown was
a mile long and a huge loop ran in front of the mansion, so I pulled the 1952 Chrysler in front of the distinguished door with the graceful fan window over it, unusual in a stone house.

The door swung open before I could knock. Portia, in tiger-striped leotard, opened the door. She crimped little tendrils in her hair and wore a scarf around her neck. The scarf resembled a knitted sock. I had thought she was back in New York.

“Nickel Smith, come right in. Diz is in the study. I liked the copy you wrote for my fashion photos but tell your art directors to make the photos larger next time.”

“I thought the layout was good.”

She dismissed this. “For a paper that decided to use photographs in 1955, yes.”

We still ran no photos on our front page, although the first page of the other sections ran photos. I loved the
Clarion
’s austere front page. I wanted a newspaper to look like a newspaper, not a goddamned comic book. While I debated whether to tell her or not, I found myself at Diz’s study and was spared my own opinions.

The study, lined with old bound books, was my favorite room in Racedown, but then studies and libraries are my favorite rooms in any house, I think. The unusual cherry wood glowed with a deep red light. Most paneling in our part of the world was done in walnut or, if built somewhat after the colonial period, mahogany. This cherry wood was spectacular and it suited Racedown, a dwelling of angles and surprises, filled with the usual quota of fine Hepplewhites, Sheratons, and Chippendales. George III silver gleamed in nooks and crannies. While I recognized these furnishings for what they were—superb pieces, priceless pieces—I was becoming bored by them. If Runnymede had a prime sin it was best seen in her decor: The whole town, not just Racedown, trembled at the thought of anything new.

Diz jumped up to greet me. I sat down across from him in front of the finely detailed fireplace, where a fire crackled to ward off the morning’s chill.

“I’m delighted you’ve called upon me.” He sounded genuine.

“I’m delighted you would take the time from your busy schedule.”

“Now that we’re both delighted, let’s talk.” The firelight was reflected in his eyes.

“The
Clarion
, that’s why I’m here. I want to buy it and you want to buy it and I’m short of cash.”

“I expected you might be.” He smiled but it wasn’t a triumphant smile.

“I wondered if we might do this together—if we could come to terms.”

“What’s your offer?”

“Fifty-fifty but I run the paper. I know there are myriad ways to cut a deal like this but that’s the deal I want—that and the option to buy you out if you ever tire of the paper.”

“What’s to prevent me from buying the
Clarion
and hiring you?”

“Not a thing.” I leaned back in the cushy wing chair. “Except I’ll leave. Nothing personal, Diz. I just don’t want to be the hired help.”

His eyes twinkled. “No, I don’t guess you would.”

“Jackson Frost will be happy to give you my financial statement because I will be shouldering half of the liability.”

“All right.” He reached for a humidor on a table next to his chair and retrieved a cigar. “Montecristo.” He held it up before lighting it. “I have a secret stash.”

“At the end of his life I think Dad would have killed for a Cuban cigar.”

Diz inhaled, his head wreathed in expensive smoke. “Your dad was the best man I ever met. You know when I’d come into the store … When did he open the store?”

“Same year Pearlie bought the three Chryslers, 1952.”

“God, my father couldn’t get over that.” Diz laughed. “Turned out that old man Trumbull was smarter than all of us. I could retire half of the national debt on what Rifes have squandered on automobiles. Well, anyway, when your dad stopped
hiring out as a carpenter and started the hardware store on the Square, I’d go in for odds and ends. You know, he always gave me something for free—a tape measure, a pocket flashlight, the kind of things that little boys treasure. Chessy Smith was the only merchant in Runnymede who gave me things for free and didn’t charge me double.”

“He liked you.”

“Well, I loved him. I didn’t guess he was the smartest businessman in the world, because he gave away too much for free.” Diz laughed. “But he sure knew how to make people happy.” He sucked in a long sweet draw. “Maybe that’s why I think your offer has some merit.”

I hung on the edge of my seat before I realized what I was doing. I shimmied back as surreptitiously as I could manage. “You’ll think about it?”

“I will, but you have to think about a few things. I can accept Jackson as your lawyer for this transaction but if we become partners, you find another lawyer, because he rubs me the wrong way.”

“I think you’re wrong about Jack.”

“You would.” A stream of hot blue smoke came out of his flared nostrils. “Since third grade you’ve thought he was something special—because he was the best-looking boy in the class. I think the man is full of fine conscience and rude egotism. And I can’t stand the way he preens in front of women—most notably you.”

I swallowed hard. How to play this? I didn’t want to wreck our as-yet-unformed partnership but even if I was mad at Jackson, I didn’t want him insulted by Diz. “Let me talk to him. In view of our long friendship I think he would step aside for the good of my future but I can’t do anything so rash as discharge him—should we come to terms—without discussing it with him.”

“That’s fair enough, but tell me this.” He paused dramatically. “What do you see in him?”

“He’s my doubles partner.” I slid into second gear.

“Not for long.” He poised on the edge of another question and then let it go. “Okay, the future of the
Clarion
. It’s antiquated, inefficient, and overstaffed. You can pump up your profit by forty percent before taxes if you know what you’re doing.”

“Such as.” My mouth turned sand dry.

“Modernize the equipment, drastically trim the staff, including editorial. You don’t need four reporters plus the editor in chief for this small town. Raise the advertising revenues just a little. The
Clarion
is too cheap. Aggressively seek new advertising in the surrounding area.”

“This modernization—it would cost Arnie Dow and the boys in the back their jobs, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes, but we would be generous with our severance pay and they have pensions.”

“The
Clarion
is their life.”

“Nickel, profit is what runs this country. I’m not suggesting we throw these laborers in the street. They will be compensated.”

“You don’t understand, Diz. A newspaper is more than a business. It’s a community resource. If we don’t guard that resource, the press will soon become indistinguishable from General Motors or any other industry. We’re the lifeblood of a free country. No press, no democracy. Profit is secondary to that function.”

He simply stared at me. “Nickel, I admire your passion but you haven’t got the sense God gave a goose.”

My voice cracked, an unfortunate giveaway to my distress. “I guess we aren’t cut out to be partners.”

“I don’t want to fight with you. I’d like it if we could work together.” He stood up because I did. “So maybe you aren’t good at business. You write a column and you can sure get the story when you’ve a mind to—”