Galilee (53 page)

Finally, the conversation returned to Rachel.

“Has Mitchell told you about the fund-raiser on Friday night?” Loretta asked her.

“No, I . . .”

Loretta threw Mitchell a weary look. “It's for the hospital. The pediatric ward. It was about the only charity Margaret had the slightest interest in, and I think it's important we have a presence there.”

“I was going to talk to Rachel about it later,” Mitchell put in.

“Later's no good, Mitchell,” Loretta said. “We've had too much ‘later' in this household. Things being put off and put off . . .” What the hell was she talking about, Rachel wondered. “We've got to get on and do what we need to do. Even if it makes us uncomfortable or—”

“All right, Loretta,” Mitchell said. “Calm down.”

“Don't you condescend to me,” Loretta replied, her voice monotonal. “You're going to listen to me for once in your pampered little life. We're in a mess here. Do you understand me?” Mitchell just stared, which inflamed Loretta all the more. “DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?” she yelled, slamming her palm down on the table. All the silverware jumped.

“Loretta—” Cecil said softly.

“Don't you start pouring oil, Cecil. This isn't any time to be making nice. We're in terrible trouble. All of us. The whole family. Terrible, terrible trouble.”

“He'll be out in a week,” Mitchell said.

“Is this willful or are you just too stupid to see what's right in front of your nose?” Loretta said, her voice not quite so loud, but still several notches above the conversational. “There's more to all this than what happened to poor Margie . . .”

“Oh don't start your Cassandra act, for God's sake,” Mitchell said, his voice thick with contempt.

“Mitchell,” Cecil said, “a little respect . . .”

“If she wants some respect she should start being practical, and not telling us it's all in the fucking stars.”

“That's not what I'm saying,” Loretta said.

“Oh I'm sorry. What is it today? Tarot cards?”

“If your father could hear you—”

“My father thought you were as crazy as a coot,” Mitchell said, getting up from the table. “And I'm not going to waste my time sitting here listening to you chatter on like you understand a damn thing about the way the business life of this family works.”

“You're the one who's out of his depth,” Loretta said.

“There you go again with your inane little threats!” Mitchell yelled. “I know what you're doing! You think I don't see you trying to get Rachel over to your side?”

“Oh for God's sake—”

“Sending her off to that stinking little island, thinking it's some kind of secret.”

Rachel caught hold of his hand. “Mitch,” she said. “You're making a fool of yourself. Shut up.”

He looked as though she'd just slapped him, hard. He pulled his hand out of her grip. “Are you in with her then?” he said, looking at Rachel but pointing at Loretta. “Is this some fucking conspiracy? Cecil? Help me out here. I want to know what's going on.”

“Nothing's
going on,” Cecil said, wearily. “We're just all tired and stressed out. And sad.”

“She
isn't sad,” Mitchell said, looking back at Loretta, who was wearing an expression of regal inviolability. “She's fucking glad Margie's dead and my brother's in a jail cell.”

“I think you should apologize for that,” Cecil said.

“It's the truth!” Mitchell protested. “Look at her!”

Now it was Cecil who rose. “I'm sorry, Mitchell, I can't permit you to talk to Loretta that way.”

“Sit the fuck down!”
Mitchell yelled. “Who the hell do you think you are?” Cecil did and said nothing. “You know what happens when the old man goes? It's Garrison and me. We're in charge. And if Garrison stays in jail, then it's just me.” He made a tight little smile. “So you'd better watch yourself, Cecil. I'm going to be looking very hard at the kind of support I'm getting. And if I see a lack of loyalty, I'm not going to think twice.” Cecil glanced down at his plate. Then he sat down. “Better,” Mitchell said. “Rachel. We're leaving.”

“So go,” Rachel said, “I'll talk to you tomorrow.” Mitchell hesitated. “I'm not coming with you,” Rachel said.

“It's up to you,” Mitchell replied, with an unconvincing show of indifference.

“I know,” Rachel said. “And I'm staying here.”

Mitchell made no further attempt to convince her. He left the room without another word.

“Brat,” Loretta remarked quietly.

“I'd better go and calm him down,” Richard said.

“Why don't we all just go home to bed?” Norah suggested.

“I think that's probably a very good idea,” Loretta said. “Rachel . . . would you stay just a couple of minutes? I need to have a word with you.”

The rest of the company departed. When the last of them had gone, and the door was closed Loretta said: “I noticed you didn't eat.”

“I wasn't hungry.”

“Lovesick?” Rachel said nothing. “It'll pass,” Loretta went on. “You'll have plenty to distract you in the next few days.” She sipped on her white wine. “You've got nothing to hide,” she said. “We've all felt what you're feeling now.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Him,” Loretta said quietly. “Galilee. I'm talking about Galilee.” Rachel looked up, and found Loretta's eyes there, ready to read her. “Was he all you wanted him to be?” she asked.

“I told you. I don't . . . know . . .”

Loretta looked pained. “There's no need for deceit,” she said. “Lie to Mitchell, by all means. But not to me.” She kept looking at Rachel; as if waiting for her to spill her pain. Greedy for it, in fact.

“Why should I lie to Mitchell?” Rachel said, determined to deflect this interrogation by gaze.

“Because it's all he deserves,” Loretta said flatly. “He was born with too many blessings for his own good. It's made him stupid. If he'd had a harelip he'd have been twice the man he is.”

“So I take it you think I'm rather stupid too.”

“Why would I think that?”

“I married him.”

“Brilliant women marry perfect clods every day of the week. Sometimes you have to do that to get on in the world. If you're a shoe-girl in a shoestore and if you don't get out all you'll ever do is sell shoes then by God you do everything in your power to change your circumstances. There's no shame in that. You did what you had to do. And now you're finished with him. And there's no shame in that either.” She paused for a moment, as if to allow time for Rachel to respond; but this little speech had left Rachel dumbstruck. “Is it really so hard to admit to?” Loretta went on. “If I were you I'd be proud of myself. I really would.”

“Proud of what?”

“Now you're being obtuse,” Loretta said, “and it's not worthy of you. What are you afraid of?”

“I just don't know . . . I don't know why you're talking this way to me when we scarcely know one another and . . . well, to be honest I thought you didn't really like me.”

“Oh I like you well enough,” Loretta said. “But liking isn't really the point any more, is it? We need one another, Rachel.”

“For what?”

“For self-protection. Whatever your dense husband thinks, he's not going to be running the Geary empire.”

“Why not?”

“Because he's inheriting a lot more than he'll be able to deal with. He'll crack. He's already cracking because he doesn't have Garrison to hold his hand.”

“What if Garrison gets off?”

“I don't think there's any ‘what if?' about it. He'll get off. But there's other stuff, just waiting to be uncovered. His women, for one thing.”

“So he has a mistress. Nobody's going to care.”

“You know what he likes to do?” Loretta said. “He likes to hire women to play dead. Doll themselves up to look like corpses and lie there and be violated. That's one of his milder obsessions.”

“Oh my God . . .”

“He's been getting more indiscreet over the last year or so. In fact, I think he wants to get caught. There are some photographs . . .”

“Of what?”

“You don't need to know,” Loretta said. “Just take it from me that if the least disgusting of them was to be made public Garrison's little circle of influence would disappear overnight.”

“And who has these pictures?” Loretta smiled. “You?” Rachel said. “You've got them?”

Loretta smoothed out a wrinkle in the tablecloth, her tone completely detached. “I'm not going to sit back and watch a necrophile and his idiot brother take charge of all this family owns. All this family stands for.” She looked up from the smoothed linen. “The point is: we all have to take sides. You can either work with me to make sure we don't lose everything when Cadmus dies, or you can run to Mitchell and tell him I'm conspiring against the two of them, and take your chances with them. It's up to you.”

“Why are you trusting me now?” Rachel said. “Because Margie's dead?”

“God, no. She was no use to me. She was too far gone. Garrison again. God knows what he put Margie through, behind locked doors.”

“She'd never have put up with—”

“With playing dead on a Saturday night? I think a lot of women do that and a lot worse to keep their husbands happy.”

“So you still haven't answered my question. Why are you telling me all this now?”

“Because now there's something you want and I can help you get it.”

There was a long silence. Then Rachel said: “Galilee?”

Loretta nodded. “Who else?” she said. “In the end, everything comes back to Galilee.”

U
nder normal circumstances Rachel would have hated the Hospital Benefit Gala. It was exactly the kind of grand, glittering event which had come to seem like an unpleasant duty after a few months of marriage: all glassy gazes and frigid smiles. But circumstances had changed. For one thing, Mitchell was wary of her, which she liked. Several times during the evening when she strayed from his side for some innocent reason he came to join her and quietly told her to stay close by. When she asked him why he told her he didn't want her cornered by some inquisitive sonofabitch who'd pump her for information about Garrison, to which she replied that she was quite capable of talking her way out of a difficult situation, and anyway what did she know that was worth gossiping about?

“You're making a fool of me,” he said when he caught up with her for the fourth time. There was fury in his eyes, but he had to perfection the trick of maintaining a benign expression despite his true feelings; the accusations emerged through an opulent smile. “I don't want you talking to anybody—do you understand me:
anybody
—without me right there with you. I'm perfectly serious, Rachel.”

“I'm going to go where the hell I like and say whatever I feel like saying, Mitchell, and neither you nor your brother nor Cecil nor Cadmus nor any other damn Geary is going to stop me.”

“Garrison'll destroy you, you know that,” Mitchell said. He wasn't even attempting to smile any longer.

Rachel was incredulous. “You sound like a bad imitation of a gangster.”

“But he will. He's not going to let you get away with anything.”

“God, you are so infantile. Now you're going to set your big brother on me?”

“I'm just trying to warn you.”

“No. You're trying to frighten me. And it's not going to work.”

He looked away for a moment, to see that nobody was close enough to hear him. “Who do you think's going to be there to help you if you get into trouble?” he said. “We're the only real family you've got, baby. The only people you could turn to if things got nasty.”

Rachel was beginning to feel faintly sick. There was no mistaking what Mitch was saying.

“I think I need to go home,” she told him.

“You know, you do look a little flushed,” he said, his hand going up to her cheek. “What's wrong?”

“I'm just tired,” she said.

“I'll take you down to the street.”

“I'll be all right.”

“No,” he said, linking his arm through hers, and drawing her close to him. “I'll go with you.”

Together they made their way through the crowd, pausing a couple of times so that Mitchell could exchange a few words with someone he knew. Rachel made little attempt to play the attentive wife; she slipped his hold and moved on toward the door after a few seconds, leaving him to follow her.

“We should talk some more,” he said once they reached the street.

“About what? I have nothing to say to you.”

“Just because we'd had some hard times—hear me out, Rachel
please
—that doesn't mean we have to throw up our hands and let everything we ever had, everything we ever felt for one another, go to hell. We should talk. We really should.” He kissed her lightly on the cheek. “I want the best for you.”

“Is that why you threatened me in there?” Rachel said.

“If it came out that way then I'm sorry, I'm truly sorry, it's not what I meant at all. I just want you to see things the way I see them.” She stared at him, hoping he felt her contempt. “I've got a much better picture of the situation right now,” he said. “I have more . . . information about the way things are. And I know—trust me, Rachel, I
know
—that you're not in a safe place.”

“I'll take the risk.”

“Rachel—”

“Go to hell,” she told him very calmly.

The chauffeur was out of the car, opening the door for her.