Galilee (18 page)

The house is run by a staff of six, who work under Loretta's ever judgmental eye. However hard they labor, however, the house is always bigger than they can manage. There's always dust gathering somewhere; they could work twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, and still not tame the enormity of the place.

So: that's the New York City residences. Actually, I haven't told you everything. Garrison has a secret place that even Margie doesn't know he owns, but I'll describe that to you when he visits it, along with an explanation as to why he's obliged to keep its existence to himself. There's also a house upstate, near Rhinebeck, but that also has a significant place in the narrative ahead, so I'll delay describing it until then.

The only other residence I want to make mention of here is a long way from New York City, but should be mentioned here, I think, because in my imagination it forms a trinity with the mansion and L'Enfant. That house is a far more humble dwelling than the other two. In fact it's probably the least impressive of any of the major residences in this story: But it stands a few yards from the blue Pacific, in a grove of palm trees, and for the lucky few who've spent a night or two beneath its roof, it evokes Edenic memories.

That house we'll also come to later, and to the secrets it contains, which are sweatier than anything Garrison hides away in his little bolthole, and yet so vast in their significance that they would beggar the skills of the men who painted the wildernesses in the mansion. We are a while away from being there, but I want you to have the image of that paradisiacal spot somewhere in your head, like a bright piece of a jigsaw puzzle which doesn't seem to fit in the scheme, but must be held on to, contemplated now and again, until its significance becomes apparent, and the picture is understood as it would not have been understood until that piece found its place.

I
must move on. Or rather back; back to the character with whom I opened this sequence, Rachel Pallenberg. The last two chapters were an attempt to offer some context for the romance between Rachel and Mitchell. And I hope as a consequence you'll feel a little more sympathy for Mitchell than his subsequent actions might seem to deserve. He was not, at least at the beginning, a cruel or reprehensible man. But he had lived most of his life in the public eye, despite his mother's best efforts. That kind of scrutiny creates an artificiality in a person's behavior. Everything becomes a kind of performance.

In the seventeen years since his father's funeral, Mitchell had learned to play himself perfectly; it was his genius. In all other regards—excepting his looks—he was average, or below average. An uninspired student, a so-so lover, an indifferent conversationalist. But when the subject of the exchange vanished and charm alone held the air, he was wonderful. In the words of Burgess Motel, who'd spent half a day with him for a profile piece in
Vanity Fair,
“The less substance there was to what he was saying, the more at ease he seemed; and, yes, the more perfect. If this seems to tread perilously close to nonsense, it's because you have to be there, watching him perform this Zen-like trick of being in nothingness, to believe just how persuasive and sexy it is. Do I sound entranced? I am!”

This wasn't the first time a male writer had swooned girlishly over Mitchell in print, but it
was
the first time somebody had successfully analyzed the way Mitchell ruled a room. Nobody knew charm like Mitchell, and nobody knew as well as Mitchell that charm was best experienced in a vacuum.

None of this, you may say, reflects well upon Rachel. How could she have fallen for such triviality? Given herself over into the arms of a man who was at his best when he had nothing of consequence to say? It was easy, believe me. She was dazzled, she was flattered, she was seduced, not just by Mitchell but by all he stood for. There had never been a time when the Gearys had not been a part of her idea of America: and now she was being invited to enter their circle; to become a part of their mystique. Who could refuse an offer like that? It was a kind of waking dream, in which she found herself removed from the gray drudgery of her life into a place of color and comfort and plenty. And she was surprised at how well she fitted into this dreamscape. It was almost as though she'd known in her heart that this was the life she'd one day be living, and had unconsciously been preparing for it.

All of which is not to say there weren't times when her palms got a little clammy. Meeting the whole family for the first time on the occasion of Cadmus's ninety-fifth birthday party; the first time down a red carpet, at a fund-raiser at the Lincoln Center, just after the engagement had been announced; the first time she was flown somewhere in the family jet, and turned out to be its only passenger. All so strange, and yet so strangely familiar.

For his part Mitchell seemed to read her anxiety level instinctively in any given situation, and act appropriately. If she was uncomfortable, he was right there at her side, showing her by example how to fend off impertinent questions politely and ease the flow of small talk if somebody became tongue-tied. On the other hand if she seemed to be having a good time he left her to her own devices. She rapidly gained a reputation as lively company; at ease with all kinds of people. The chief revelation for Rachel was this: that these power brokers and potentates with whom she was now beginning to rub elbows were hungry for simple conversation. Over and over again she would catch herself thinking: they're no different from the rest of us. They had dyspepsia and ill-fitting shoes, they bit their nails and worried about their waistlines. There were a few individuals, of course, who decided she was beneath them—generally women of uncertain vintage—but she rarely encountered such snobbery. More often than
not she found herself welcomed warmly, often with the observation that she was the one Mitchell had been looking for, and everyone was glad she was finally here.

As to her own story, well she didn't talk about it much at first. If people asked about her background, she'd keep the answers vague. But as she began to trust her confidence more, she talked more openly about life in Dansky, and about her family. There was a certain percentage of people whose eyes started to glaze over once she mentioned anywhere west of the Hudson, but there were far more who seemed eager for news from a world less sealed, less smothering than their own.

“You will have noticed,” Garrison's garish and acidic wife Margie—whose tongue was notoriously acidic—remarked, “that you keep seeing the same sour old faces wherever you go. You know why? There's only twenty important people left in New York, twenty-one now you're here, and we all go to the same parties and we all serve on the same committees. And we're all very, very bored with one another.” She happened to make the remark while she and Rachel stood on a balcony looking down at a glittering throng of perhaps a thousand people. “Before you say anything,” Margie went on, “it's all done with mirrors.”

Inevitably on occasion a remark somebody would make would leave her feeling uncomfortable. Usually such remarks weren't directed at her, but at Mitchell, in her presence.

“Wherever did you find her?” somebody would say, meaning no conscious offense by the question but making Rachel feel like a purchase, and the questioner fully expected to go back to the same store and pick up one for themselves.

“They're just amazed at how lucky I am,” Mitchell said, when she pointed out how objectionable she found that kind of observation. “They don't mean to be rude.”

“I know.”

“We can stop going to so many parties, if you like.”

“No. I want to know all the people you know.”

“Most of them are pretty boring.”

“That's what Margie said.”

“Are you two getting on well?”

“Oh yes. I love her. She's so outrageous.”

“She's a terrible drunk,” Mitchell said curtly. “She's been okay for the last couple of months, but she's still unpredictable.”

“Was she always . . . ?”

“An alcoholic? Yes.”

“Maybe I can help her,” Rachel said.

He kissed her. “My Good Samaritan.” He kissed her again. “You can try but I don't hold out much hope. She's got so many axes to grind. She doesn't like Loretta at all. And I don't think she likes me much.”

Now it was Rachel who offered the kiss. “What's not to like?” she said.

Mitchell grinned. “Damned if I know,” he said.

“You egotist.”

“Me? No. You must be thinking of somebody else. I'm the humble one in the family.”

“I don't think there's such a thing—”

“—as a humble Geary?”

“Right.”

“Hm.” Mitchell considered this for a moment. “Grandma Kitty was the nearest, I guess.”

“And you liked her?”

“Yeah,” Mitchell said, the warmth of his affection there in his voice. “She was sweet. A little crazy toward the end, but sweet.”

“And Loretta?”

“She's not crazy. She's the sanest one in the family.”

“No, I meant, do you like her?”

Mitchell shrugged. “Loretta's Loretta. She's like a force of nature.”

Rachel had met Loretta only two or three times so far: this was not the way the woman seemed at all. Quite the contrary. She'd seemed rather reserved, even demure, an impression supported by the fact that she always dressed in white or silvery gray. The only theatrical touch was the turbanish headgear she favored, and the immaculate precision of her makeup, which emphasized the startling violet of her eyes. She'd been pleasant to Rachel, in a gentle, noncommittal sort of way.

“I know what you're thinking,” Mitchell said. “You're thinking: Loretta's just an old-fashioned lady. And she is. But you try crossing her—”

“What happens?”

“It's like I said: she's a force of nature. Especially anything to do with Cadmus. I mean, if anyone in the family says anything against him and she hears about it she tears out their throats. ‘You wouldn't have two cents to rub together without him,' she says. And she's right. We wouldn't. This family would have gone down without him.”

“So what happens when he dies?”

“He isn't going to die,” Mitchell said, without a trace of irony in his voice. “He's going to go on and on and on till one of us drives him out to Long Island. Sorry. That was in bad taste.”

“Do you think about that a lot?”

“What happened to Dad? No. I don't think about it at all. Except when some book comes out, you know, saying it was the Mafia or the CIA. I get in a funk about that stuff. But we're never going to really know what happened, so what's the use of thinking about it?” He stroked a stray hair back from Rachel's brow. “You don't need to worry about any of this,” he said. “If the old man dies tomorrow we'll divide up the pie—some for Garrison, some for Loretta, some for us. Then you and me . . . we'll just disappear. We'll get on a plane and we'll fly away.”

“We could do that now if you want to,” Rachel said. “I don't need the family, and I certainly don't need to live the high life. I just need you.”

He sighed; a deep, troubled sigh. “Ah. But where does the family end and Mitchell begin? That's the question.”

“I know who you are,” Rachel said, drawing close to him. “You're the man I love. Plain and simple.”

Of course it wasn't that plain and it wasn't that simple.

Rachel had entered a small and unenviable coterie: that group of people whose private lives were deemed publicly owned. America wanted to know about the woman who had stolen Mitchell Geary's heart, especially as she'd been an ordinary creature so very recently. Now she was transformed. The evidence was there in the pages of the glossies and the weekly gossip rags: Rachel Pallenberg dressed in gowns a year's salary would not have bought her six months before, her smile that of a woman happy beyond her wildest dreams. Happiness like that couldn't be celebrated for very long; it soon lost its appeal. The same readers who were entranced by the rags-to-riches story in February and March, and astonished by the way the shop girl had been made into a princess in April and May, and a little tearful about the announcement of an autumn wedding when it was made in June, wanted the dirt by July.

What was she
really
like, this thief who'd run off with Prince Mitchell's eligibility? She wouldn't be as picture-perfect as she seemed; nobody was that
pleasant.
She had secrets; no doubt. Once the wedding was announced, the investigators went to work. Before Rachel Pallenberg got into her white dress and became Rachel Geary, they were going to find something scandalous to tell, even if they had to turn over every rock in Ohio to do it.

Mitchell wasn't immune from the same zealous muckraking. Old stories about his various liaisons resurfaced in tarted-up forms. His short affair with the drug-addicted daughter of a congressman; his various trips around the Aegean with a small harem of Parisian models; his apparently passionate attachment to Natasha Morley, who'd lately married minor European royalty, and (according to some sources) broken his heart by so doing. One of the sleazier rags even managed to find a classmate from Harvard who claimed that Mitchell's taste for girls ran to the barely pubescent. “If there's grass on the field, play ball, that's what he used to say,” the “classmate” remembered.

Just in case Rachel was tempted to take any of this to heart, Margie brought over a stack of magazines that her housekeeper, Magdalene, had hoarded from the early years of Margie's life with Garrison, all of which contained stories filled with similar vitriol. The two women were in almost every way dissimilar: Rachel petite and stylish, reserved in her manner; Margie big-boned, overdressed, and voluble. Yet they were like sisters in this storm.