Southern Belle. Fiona Hood-Stewart
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“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.
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