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“Hey, wait a minute.” Meredith sat up, startled. “That’s a huge step, Elm. I’m not saying you’re wrong, but you’d better think it over very carefully.”
“My mind’s made up.” She sounded strangely firm and resolute.
“But, Elm, the election, the—”
“Fuck the election. I’m through. Get the papers together, Mer. And after I’m gone, you can tell him.”
“Elm, I think you should consider the—”
“As of this moment, I’m hiring you as my attorney,” Elm interrupted, pushing back the chair and rising.
“I can’t. There’s a conflict of interest, we’re friends.” Elm shrugged. “You figure it out. I won’t be here, anyway. I’m leaving.”
“Where’re you going?”
“To Gioconda in Switzerland. I’ll stay with her at her chalet in Gstaad.”
“But it’s Christmas in two and a half weeks, Elm, you can’t just walk out. Think of all your social commitments, the—”
“Frankly, I couldn’t give a damn. Just don’t let Daddy get a whiff of any of this yet.”
“Elm, it’s really not a good idea to make this kind of decision in the heat of the moment,” Meredith insisted. “Are you absolutely sure this is what you want?” She came around the desk and laid an anxious hand on her friend’s arm.
“I have to get out of here. It’s the only way, Mer. Call me at Gio’s when the papers are ready to sign. Please get it done fast. And thanks.”
“For what, screwing up your life?” Meredith shook her head bitterly. “I shouldn’t have come on so strong.”
“Don’t. We both know this had to happen one day. Everything you said was true. I just didn’t want to recognize it. And now that I have, there’s no way I can sit back and take it as I have all these years.” She leaned over and gave her friend a quick hug.
Passing a worried hand through her pageboy haircut, Meredith sighed as she watched her friend leave. Elm was right. It would have come to this, anyway. Still, she was shocked and surprised at the rapidity of Elm’s decision. She prayed she wouldn’t regret it. She’d expected every sort of reaction—tears, anger, frustration—but not this. Not cold, rigid decision. My God, she realized, collapsing again in her chair, Elm had simply transformed into another being. For a moment she wondered if she should advise someone, even call Harlan or Senator Hathaway, the housekeeper—heck, anyone.
Then she realized she couldn’t.
Technically, she was now Elm’s legal representative and as such was bound to do what her client had requested: namely, prepare divorce papers and stay quiet about it.
She stared at the file she’d been working on, the legal challenge to the privatization of the Mogachee Municipal Waste Processing Plant, and sighed. Maybe Elm would calm down by tomorrow and realize she was being too precipitate. Not that Meredith blamed her for wanting rid of Harlan as fast as possible. Still, there were a number of things to be taken into consideration. Elm was a very wealthy woman, and the publicity…
Leaning back in her chair, she considered Harlan. He certainly deserved anything he got, even being dumped two weeks before Christmas. Still, she was herself a die-hard Democrat, and the party couldn’t afford to lose Harlan’s seat to the Republicans. On the other hand, Meredith had to admit, under all that boyish, suave, Kennedy-style charm, Elm’s husband was a dirtbag who’d gotten lucky thanks to the old-boy network that functioned on past favors and future dues. She shrugged, wishing she hadn’t been the one to confirm what Jennifer Ball, in her unsubtle, vindictive way, had let loose.
She could just imagine Jennifer, with those long, glossy legs she was so proud of, striding arrogantly over to Elm in full view of her less-well-endowed former classmates—now full-fledged veterans of the garden club, bravely fighting any incipient signs of middle age—and baring her capped white teeth at Elm. Jennifer had always loathed Elm, knowing she’d never have Elm’s beauty, poise, wealth or privileged position in Savannah society, and she would have made darn sure her little entourage of doting admirers—including Hannah Ramsey, Tiffany Fern, and that two-faced bitch Elsa MacDonald—were present for Elm’s humiliation. Jennifer had been divorced twice, and had had several affairs with notable local citizens. Luring Elm’s husband to her side was a natural evolutionary step, and one that must have been especially satisfying. Not that Harlan needed much enticement, Meredith reflected grimly. The man apparently had a hard time keeping his pants on.
But divorce. Even she was shocked. After all, Harlan and Elm were an institution.
Did Elm have any idea of all that was on the line? Meredith wondered, concerned. With everything Harlan had to lose, there was no way he was going to take this lying down.
Tapping her pen rhythmically on her yellow legal pad, Meredith thought the matter over. Perhaps in a couple of days, when Elm had calmed down, she could talk to her reasonably, persuade her to wait at least until after the holidays, not make a rash decision in the heat of the moment. And then, if she was still determined to go ahead, then maybe Elm could have it out with Harlan and come to some kind of civilized arrangement. Not that he deserved it. Far from it. But in the long run, it would be better for all concerned.
When the phone rang, Meredith grabbed it as though her life depended upon the call. Anything right now, she figured, even old Mr. Tompson’s estate case—which she loathed—would come as a welcome relief.
3
“Bitch,” Harlan MacBride muttered, then slammed down the phone so hard the antique mahogany desk shuddered. Had Elm gone fucking nuts?
Meredith Hunter’s words echoed ominously.
Elm wanted a divorce.
It was unthinkable.
He’d never have guessed she had the guts to cross him this way, or that she’d take such a drastic step and then disappear. She’d been missing for days, making things damned uncomfortable for him—he’d only just now learned that she’d hightailed it to Switzerland, to that crazy Italian friend of hers whom he’d never liked, Gioconda Mancini.
Harlan flexed his fingers, eyes narrowed. Fuck Elm. She had no right to do this, no right at all. And fuck Jennifer for having opened her big sexy mouth. She was a great lay, and that tongue of hers could work wonders, but obviously he’d misjudged her ability to keep her goddamn trap shut.
He should have been more careful, he admitted, his lower lip twitching. But all those damn IVF treatments had been such a drag. Worse, he’d had to carry on the pretense of giving a shit—cosset Elm after the implantations, agree to the doctor’s recommendation that he stay out of her bed—when he had far bigger matters on his plate. It wasn’t surprising he’d let off steam with Jennifer. Any man would have. Elm should be grateful to him for being so understanding instead of flying off in a sulk.
And now she was threatening divorce, he reflected grimly. If he wasn’t meticulous about defusing her snit, Elm could spoil his re-election chances. She of all people knew he’d won his House seat on a platform promoting strong, Christian family values. Hell, the goddamn campaign posters that were going out next week showed him holding her hand and surrounded by smiling kids. Not his kids, mind you, he reflected, annoyed.
He shook his head and muttered crossly. Elm was nothing but an unappreciative spoiled brat who should be thanking her lucky stars for having a husband like him, one who, despite the drawback of not having children, had been able to look past the negative and see the potential of the situation. That was something he’d learned early on: how to twist circumstances—however challenging—to his advantage.
Harlan leaned back in the deep office chair and a slow smile crept over his handsome features as he recalled the several newspaper and TV interviews where he’d tearfully confessed that God hadn’t seen fit to bless them with kids, how maybe one day he and his wife would adopt. It had worked like a charm. Immediately the family-values freaks and the born-again Christians had come beating down his door, fists full of campaign dollars.
But they’d abandon him in a heartbeat if Elm’s allegations ever got out, he reflected gloomily, the smile disappearing as fast as it had dawned. And so would Senator Hathaway’s support, he realized, sitting up straighter. Much as he’d prefer to forget it, Harlan knew that, despite his charisma and eloquent Southern charm, it was Elm’s father—the influential six-term senator from Georgia—who’d gotten him elected. Hathaway had made phone calls, calling in half-a-century’s worth of favors, and the checks had followed. But even more critical was the family connection. Being viewed as the senator’s political heir-apparent gave him instant clout. No way could that be jeopardized, he thought, sucking in his lean cheeks, bronzed from a weekend of sailing on his friend Tyler Brock’s hundred-foot sloop. There had to be a way around this.
Harlan drummed the desk absently and pondered. At thirty-seven, he was everything old man Hathaway had once been: young, handsome, charismatic. But whereas Hathaway, for all his wealth and clout, had long ago had to content himself with the Senate floor, Harlan possessed that extra something that made him special, that rare and extraordinary political talent that made the White House a realistic goal. They both knew it, and that’s why the senator had invested so heavily in him—because Harlan was his ticket to what he couldn’t get on his own. No way was Hathaway going to let that dream die.
Of course, it helped that he had no clear idea of what state his daughter’s marriage was in; the senator was very protective of Elm. Still, surely he could be made to understand, to see things Harlan’s way? It might not be a bad idea to present himself as the injured party here, soliciting his father-in-law’s sympathy, he reflected, fingering his Old Miss tie. It all depended on just how much Elm had blabbered.
Despite his nonchalance, he pulled the handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped a thin film of sweat from his brow. Old Man Hathaway was a rigid stickler for form, prided himself on being the goddamn Conscience of the Senate. Elm had to know she could wreak considerable damage with a tearful call to Dear Daddy.
Even as he considered that frightening possibility, he acknowledged that, for all her faults, broadcasting private matters wasn’t Elm’s style. Plus, Hathaway had been in the dark about his daughter’s whereabouts, too. Maybe the better course here was just to come clean—well, not too clean, certainly, just enough to cover his ass in case someone saw fit to inform Hathaway of his son-in-law’s little dalliances. He mentally sketched a speech—he’d act repentant, confide in him man-to-man, make the proper excuses. The senator was a player after all, a pragmatist. With any luck, he’d understand and let Harlan off with a scolding.
The idea grew on him. Not that its success was a given—he’d have to tread carefully. Elm was the old man’s only daughter, after all, and however much the senator might like and support his son-in-law, blood ran thicker than water. Particularly, Harlan mused, for someone like George Hathaway.
For a moment he surveyed his elegantly appointed office, the elaborate eighteenth-century frieze, the authentic antiques and Old Master paintings, the gracious bay windows reaching out onto the inner garden so carefully tended by Josiah, the Hathaway family gardener, all part of the image he’d so carefully compiled and cultivated. It was no less than he deserved, of course. Unfortunately, he reminded himself sourly, it all belonged to his beautiful, elusive wife. These offices, the house on Abercorn, were essential to asserting his status. Thank God very few of his constituents got to see that dumpy back office he’d been assigned at the Capitol, a sharp reminder that, in the bigger scheme of things, he still stood on the bottom rung of the political ladder.
But that was on the verge of changing.
If Elm didn’t mess up.
He clenched his fingers and stared at the wall, plastered with endless photographs featuring flattering images of himself with everyone from Clinton and Bush to Magic Johnson and the king of Saudi Arabia. The sight soothed his sizzling temper and helped clear his head. He might still be only a junior congressman, but he’d already made many powerful friends and cultivated connections that he was certain would pay off in the future.
However, all that would be seriously at risk unless he fixed his little problem, he reminded himself. It was essential that Elm return. Harlan slumped in the chair and brooded. What did she want? he wondered. The divorce threat had to be a bluff. Still, never in a hundred years would he have imagined she’d go this route. Obviously he’d made a serious misstep in not acting suitably penitent the other morning. He should have realized when she disappeared to Oleander for those few days that something was up. But she was always buried over there, painting those weird canvases that the critics seemed to think were so hot and redoing the gardens with those freaks she’d recruited from the battered women’s center.
With a shake of the head, Harlan rallied. He prided himself on crisis control, the power to compartmentalize and find effective solutions for any predicament. The present one required focus and action. He pulled himself up and began making notes on a legal pad, reviewing the circumstances.
Then a slow smile curved his lips, and he tapped his foot rhythmically, beginning to relax. Elm had recently complained of—what was it? Some sort of weird symptoms. Damn it, he couldn’t quite remember. Never mind. She’d talked of visiting Doc Philips. Bingo. There was his excuse staring him right in the face: Elm was making all the wrong decisions because she wasn’t feeling herself.
“Ha!” Harlan let out a harsh laugh and brought his fist down on the desk with a satisfied thud. If he played this right with Hathaway, he might just emerge smelling like a rose. If he played it right. It was essential to shoot dead on target.
Closing his eyes, Harlan conjured up the scene that would take place later in the senator’s library, silently mouthing his words: Elm wasn’t herself, needed help, had some sort of female problem that was affecting her decision-making. Maybe the last failed IVF treatment had hit her harder than they’d realized. He was sorry, so very sorry, he’d done anything to hurt her—his only excuse was that the stress of infertility had affected him, too. He regretted it bitterly, but surely she could forgive one little slip? And by the way, shouldn’t they try to do something about this absurd divorce procedure that made no sense at all and that she would obviously regret the minute she regained her health?
He jumped up, excited.
It was perfect.
For a second he thought of the other measures he was implementing that one day, he hoped, would secure him his absolute freedom from the powerful Hathaway clan. But that was farther down the line. It was still too soon, he reminded himself. He shook his head. There was far too much at stake to take foolish risks. He owed it to the electorate to ensure his staying power, didn’t he? After all, the future of the greatest nation in the world could not depend on the whims of a slighted woman.
Twiddling his gold fountain pen—the one with which he signed all official documents—Harlan glanced coldly at his wife’s beautiful image smiling wistfully up at him from the silver-framed photograph. He would not tolerate her messing with him.
He felt better now that he’d decided on a definitive strategy. He stretched his arms and rotated his neck. Then he caught sight of himself in the gilt-framed eighteenth-century mirror above the marble mantel. Head tilted, Harlan surveyed himself critically. It wasn’t just his boyish charm or rueful smile that captured voters, he acknowledged proudly. It was that blazing internal radiance that he’d learned to produce automatically, profoundly conscious of its effect. In simple terms, he had the power to seduce others! It gave him a rush to know he could subject them to his will. In fact, he was increasingly amazed at his own flawless charisma. Each time he spoke he absorbed the crowd’s energy, its vibes, steeped himself in the atmosphere, then let the public set him on track, offer him their vision, so that he could pitch what they wanted back to them.
There was always a point—usually about five minutes into a speech—when he captured the audience’s response, when he knew the bond had been forged. From then on, it was plain sailing and the gathered electorate was his. And that was his secret weapon—the magic touch that would lead him inevitably to his ultimate goal.
Straightening his shoulders, Harlan jutted his well-defined chin and remembered Jack Kennedy. A sudden vision of himself, ankles casually crossed on the desk of the Oval Office, sent a rush ripping through him. He rocked on his heels and basked in it. Then just as quickly, he stood still. He would get there, all right, but first he must get his ducks in a row.
He glanced at his watch, then at the battery of phones spread on the desk. Better get on with it and set up the appointment right away. There was no point in avoiding what had to be done.
4
Senator George Hathaway straightened the jacket of his immaculate dark suit and pulled from his waistcoat his grand-father’s watch, the one that had kept perfect time since before the Civil War. He eyed it narrowly. Harlan was due here at six o’clock. If his son-in-law knew what was good for him, he wouldn’t be late.
Crossing the somber library lined with several generations’ worth of classics, he settled heavily into his favorite armchair, noting with surprise that his customary copy of the Washington Post was missing. Normally the morning edition was always set, freshly ironed, on the delicate side table. Then he recalled the servants had the day off for a Christmas event at the local Baptist church. George Hathaway encouraged churchgoing. He himself attended Christ Church, the oldest church in Savannah, as did Harlan and Elm.
But this past Sunday, Harlan had come to services alone.
At first he’d worried something was wrong with his daughter—Elm had been having strange spells of sickness in recent weeks, and he’d urged her to seek care. But when Harlan admitted that Elm had left Savannah, whereabouts unknown, it raised another disturbing possibility. There were troubling signs that things were deeply wrong in his beloved daughter’s marriage.
The senator sighed deeply. In all the years Elm had been married to Harlan, he’d always believed her to be happy. Yet over the past few weeks something inexplicable had occurred and the marriage had clearly suffered. Elm had refused to explain. And now she’d gone away right before the holiday season, without an explanation, leaving no phone number, just a letter saying she needed some time and would call him.
It was irresponsible and selfish behavior, he concluded, shaking his gray head. Surely he’d brought her up to know better? His son-in-law was a fine young man with a promising future in which he himself had invested heavily. Harlan would go far—all the way to the White House, he hoped—but Elm’s inexplicable actions could only serve as a hindrance.
Perhaps Harlan was right to think Elm’s recent illness was the reason she was acting in a manner so unlike her usual dutiful self. Still, the senator suspected there was likely more to matters than Harlan was willing to admit. He’d heard a couple of rumors, things he’d have preferred not to have heard. Harlan was a handsome young fellow, he reflected, one who held a prominent position in society and a growing political power base, all elements that caused envy and inevitable gossip. They also attracted an inevitable bevy of women. But Harlan was a caring, loving husband. At least he appeared to be. Surely Elm was too bright to be put off by any silly nonsense?
Letting out a huff, he raised his tall frame from the deep maroon leather chair near the fire, too restless to read yesterday’s copy of Congressional Quarterly and glanced into the hall at the Christmas tree standing forlorn in the corner. Ever since she was a wee thing, Elm had helped decorate it. The only other year the tree had remained bare until just before Christmas was the year Elm turned five and her mother had succumbed to cancer, he recalled with a sigh.
Checking his pocket watch once more, he noted with gathering impatience that it was one minute past six. At that very moment the doorbell clanged. With a small nod, the senator made his way across the marbled foyer floor and opened up the massive polished mahogany door.
“Ah. Harlan, m’boy, come on in.”
“Hello, sir.” Harlan gave him a tight smile.
Something about Harlan’s attitude made the shrewd senator suddenly afraid that his suspicions were right and that he had somehow bungled things badly. He sent him a bland speculative glance before leading the way under the heavy crystal chandelier imported by the first Hathaway in 1820, and across the wide-planked pine floors of the library.
“Any news?” he asked, leaning over a silver tray decked with a splendid array of whiskey-filled Waterford decanters that sparkled invitingly. He poured two heavy cut-crystal tumblers of single malt and turned, handing one to Harlan, who stood, face drawn, next to the Adam mantelpiece.
“We’ve traced her, sir. She’s staying with Gioconda Mancini in Switzerland.”
“Thank God for that,” the senator sighed, relieved, and sank back into the sagging leather. “I was getting concerned. So unlike her to disappear like this. Very odd.” He sipped thoughtfully, never taking his eyes off his son-in-law.
“Well, at least now I know she’s safe.” Harlan threw back the whiskey in one shot, obviously deeply affected by his wife’s sudden disappearance. He glanced at his father-in-law. “I just wish I knew why she felt this sudden need to disappear. I—” He looked down at the carpet, shook his head, then sighed. “I don’t understand, sir. I’ve tried to be there for her, be a good husband. If I’d known she was feeling sick again I’d have gone with her to Doc Philips, but she never told me—”
“Hmm. I don’t understand it myself.”
“I guess we’ll just have to be patient, give her the time and understanding she needs to get over this…this idea she’s got in her head,” he murmured, lips tight as he stared blindly through the window into the lush garden, past the camellias and the Roman fountain where two starlings perched, eyes fixed on the ivy-covered wall that for nearly two centuries had protected the Hathaways’ privacy.
“Well. At least if she’s with Gioconda we don’t have to worry she’ll be properly looked after. We should have thought of Gioconda immediately. It was the obvious place for Elm to go, now that I think about it.” The senator eyed Harlan sharply. “You mentioned that she had some idea in her head. What was that, I wonder?”
“Oh, nothing serious. Just malicious gossip.” Harlan shrugged dismissively. “They chatter too much over at the Tennis League. Unfortunately, sir, Elm appears to have been listening to some pretty outrageous lies.”
“Hmm.” Senator Hathaway sent his son-in-law another long, speculative glance. So something was up, after all.
“It was stupid of me not to have thought of Gioconda,” Harlan said quickly. “I haven’t called there, though. I thought—” he looked across at the senator and hesitated “—I thought it would be better to let her take the initiative.”
“Perhaps.” George Hathaway pondered the matter, not in the least bit fooled by Harlan’s effort to shift the conversation. He didn’t like it, not one little bit. It was so out of character for Elm to act like this. If Harlan had strayed—and it now seemed possible he had—why hadn’t she just talked it over with him, had it out? Maybe sent Harlan to the doghouse for a few weeks, then patched it up, as all women did. And if she was sick, why didn’t she stay close to her family? But as he watched Harlan, it was clear his son-in-law had more to say.
“There’s another thing, sir.” Harlan shifted, plainly uncomfortable.
“Go on,” he said dryly.
“I got a call this morning from Meredith Hunter.”
“Oh?” Something in the younger man’s tone told him this was deeply serious.
“Elm’s asked her to file for a divorce.”
“Divorce?” The senator’s glass came down on the small mahogany table next to him with a heavy thud, and he rose. “Why on earth would Elm want a divorce?”
“I don’t know. It’s utterly crazy. I could hardly believe it when Meredith spoke to me.”
“What did she say?”
“That Elm had asked her to go ahead and prepare the papers,” he said bleakly. “I just can’t believe it, sir. After all these years. I thought we were happy.”
“Are you sure? Something very serious must have occurred for her to take such radical action.”
“Okay, we’ve had a couple of arguments now and then, and, well…I…well, I may not have always been a perfect spouse.” Harlan shifted uneasily. “But nothing to merit this, sir, I assure you.”
George Hathaway quelled a surge of anger at Harlan’s oblique admission of adultery—Elm was his daughter, after all—but even more disturbing was the evidence that his son-in-law had been so foolish. There was too much at risk here to let one’s libido rule one’s actions, he reflected in disgust. His whole political future could be at stake. Smothering the pithy comments he would normally have delivered, he reminded himself that it was water under the bridge—what was needed now was crisis control. He paused thoughtfully. “Meredith Hunter, you say?”
“Yes. At least she’s kept it close to home.”
“Thank God for that.”
“Elm doesn’t seem to realize the implications of what she’s done,” Harlan ventured, “to all of us.” There was a bitter edge to his voice that didn’t escape the senator’s sharp ears.
“Obviously not. Although it’s rather clear you didn’t take into account the consequences your, er…behavior might incur, either,” he responded sarcastically, sending Harlan that piercing look that had been known to make the most stalwart opposition flinch. “But you and I will address that later. For the present, I think it’s best that I have a word with Meredith.”
“A word, sir?”
