“What kind of question is that?” he asked, slurring his words slightly.
“I mean, aren’t you sick of pretending that everything’s okay between us? Don’t you hate having to travel all the way out here just for boring old me?”
“Not at all. Get a lot of work done on the train.…”
“Come on, George, you’re not that drunk. Why don’t we discuss our so-called marriage?”
“What’s there to discuss? You want a divorce? You can have a divorce. You’re still a good-looking girl. Find a brand-new husband in no time.”
Cathy felt too upset to be angry. She pulled into the parking lot of a shopping center, so that she could concentrate on this crucial conversation without crashing into a tree.
She then turned and asked him straight out, “So that’s it, then — it’s over?”
He looked at her and, in one of his rare expressions of true feelings, said, “You know I really don’t want to make you unhappy.”
“I thought it was I who was making you miserable.”
“No, Cathy. No. No. No.”
“Then what is it, George? What’s come between us?”
He stared straight ahead for a moment, then half-buried his face in his hands and said softly, “My life is shit.”
“In what way?” she asked quietly.
“In every way. I’m taking it out on you because I’m miserable doing what I’m doing. It’s like running on a treadmill. I’m going nowhere. I’m forty-two years old and already a burned-out case.”
“That’s not true, George,” she said sincerely. “You’re brilliant. Your best years are still ahead.”
He shook his head. “No, you can’t make me believe that. Somewhere along the line I missed my chance. Things are never going to be much different than they are right now.”
She put her hand on his shoulder. “George, what we need isn’t a divorce, it’s a second honeymoon.”
He gazed at her, and consciously reaffirmed what he had always known subliminally. She was the best thing that had ever happened to him.
“Do you think we have a chance?”
“As you boys say on Wall Street, George,” she smiled, “I’m still bullish about our future. All you need is a little ‘sabbatical’ to give you a chance to get a second wind.”
“A sabbatical — from what?”
“From your unquenchable and temporarily frustrated ambition, my love.”
The Kellers’ grand tour of Europe was not quite the total holiday that Cathy had wanted. But it was enough to rekindle hope for the future of their relationship.
To begin with, she taught George his first lesson in how to enjoy life. To take satisfaction from what he had already accomplished.
For in every country they visited, high government officials welcomed them in royal fashion. And it bolstered George’s ego to see himself still respected, even though he was out of office.
In fact, his political antennae proved to be shrewder than ever. In London, he and Cathy dined with Mrs. Margaret Thatcher, M. P., who would be leading the Conservative Party in the next general election. She complimented George’s views on geopolitics, and Cathy’s hat.
The same was true in Germany and in France, where the newly installed foreign minister, Jean François-Poncet, entertained them in his home — a Gallic rarity.
Their final stop was Brussels. While Cathy was out doing some last-minute shopping, George had lunch with his old colleague from the NSC days, Alexander Haig, now Supreme Allied Commander in Europe. With his usual candor, the general pronounced his judgment on the current White House occupant.
“Carter’s really messing up. His foreign policy is a disaster. It’s an experiment in obsequiousness. We’ve got to behave like the superpower we are. That’s the only way to make the Soviets respect us. I tell you, George, Carter’ll be a sitting duck in 1980.”
“Who do you think we’ll run against him?”
Haig replied with a sly grin, “Well, I’ve been thinking of giving it a shot.”
“That’s great,” George responded with shining enthusiasm. “I’ll help you any way I can.”
“Thanks. And I’ll tell you something — if I make it, my Secretary of State is sitting right here at this table.”
“I’m very flattered.”
“Come on, Keller,” said Haig, “can you name anyone more qualified?”
“No, frankly,” George responded mischievously.
He could have flown home without a plane.
If in the 1960s Danny Rossi had become a household name, in the late 1970s he became a household face. His charismatic visage was now beamed regularly into millions of homes, thanks to an enormously successful — and prizewinning — series of musical documentaries made for Public Television.
First there was a baker’s dozen of programs on the instruments of the orchestra. This was followed by a history of the symphony. Both, of course, had book tie-ins, and to the many strings on his bow Danny now added that of bestselling author.
“Maria, I’ve got to talk to you seriously about Danny.” They were sitting in Terry Moran’s office at the station.
In the three years she had been working for WHYY-TV, Maria had risen from assistant director to full-fledged producer. And it was rumored that the station president would soon elevate her to program director.
Their glass of sherry together on Friday afternoons had now become a weekly ritual. They would go over various crises and indulge in fantasies of what they could do if only they had a bigger budget.
“I feel I have the right to say this,” Terry continued, “because now you’re not some neophyte. And to put it bluntly, I feel Danny’s being unfaithful. To Philadelphia, I mean — and us. Look, I can understand why he’d want to film his first series at KCET in L.A. He directs the Philharmonic there, and there’s a huge pool of TV talent in Tinseltown. But why the hell did he have to do his history of the symphony in New York?”
“Terry, you can’t imagine the pressure they put on him at WNET. Besides, I think Lenny Bernstein was working behind the scenes.”
Moran slammed his desk. “But dammit, man for man, our orchestra’s as good as theirs, if not better. That series earned a fortune for the supplying station, and we could really use the dough. Most of all, I feel Danny should show some allegiance to the city that first made him a conductor. Don’t you agree?”
“Terry, this isn’t fair. You’re putting me on the spot.”
“Maria, you’ve known me long enough to realize I play fair and square. I’m not talking to Danny Rossi’s wife, I’m complaining to my business partner. Objectively speaking, don’t you think he should do his next TV project here?”
“Objectively speaking, yes. But I —” She grew self-conscious and could not continue her sentence. Though in the past months she had received more genuine warmth and support from Terry, she still felt an atavistic loyalty to the man who was legally her husband.
“I mean, from all those interviews I read in the papers, you and he make those big career decisions together.” Moran hesitated and then added, “Or shouldn’t I believe what I read?”
Maria grew reticent and wondered what else he had been reading in the press.
Actually, there had been times, after a long session in the cutting room, when she had almost felt brave enough to speak to Terry of her domestic unhappiness. After all, he had already confided in her. She knew about his divorce, which had shaken his staunchly Catholic parents. And how badly he missed his children.
These long conversations had made her realize that they were both reluctant to leave because neither had any real home to go to.