The next day, back in the city, the three of them met with Rann’s agent and Rita’s and Hal Grey’s attorneys, and the necessary papers were signed. George Pearce was delighted and insisted on taking them all to dinner afterward to celebrate. Hal Grey’s office arranged a press luncheon for the next day, where the formal announcements were to be made.
Rann was unable to suppress a feeling of hostility for Nancy Adams of the Tribune, so, knowing he would see her at luncheon the next day, he expressed his feelings to George Pearce and Rita Benson that evening. Margie and Hal Grey had excused themselves after dinner because of early morning appointments and the three of them had taken Rita’s car to Rann’s apartment, where Sung had served them drinks in the drawing room.
“Your apartment is charming, Rann. So decidedly masculine and yet I suspect a woman’s touch here and there.”
Rita sat on the couch facing the fireplace, the fire already crackling though Rann had put a match to it only minutes before when they had entered the room. Something Chinese, Rann supposed, in the way Sung laid a fire always made them catch very quickly.
“It must be Serena, my grandfather’s second wife. I’ve not changed anything since he died and left the place to me.”
Rann settled into a comfortable armchair on one side of the fire, and George chose its counterpart on the other side. Rann realized these were the first visitors he had brought here since he returned. It had not occurred to him to change anything in the apartment.
“You really should redo the place to suit your own personality, Rann.” Rita sipped her drink and placed the glass on the cocktail table. “It is good for one to express one’s self in one’s surroundings.”
“Perhaps I don’t know yet what it is I would express, Rita—but I have time for that. Right now I have a problem I think the two of you can advise me on, which is why I wanted to talk to you this evening. Tomorrow, we will have to talk to Nancy Adams—”
George Pearce interrupted. “I know. I’ve thought of that. You are understandably upset and angry over all the articles she has written, and now she has that upstart of a senator, what’s-his-name, promising a full-scale investigation based on your book. The thing to remember is that she can’t really hurt us. Oh, she can irritate and infuriate, but the more she writes the more books we sell and the richer you get in the long run. The worst that can happen is that you will have to answer some questions, but you are innocent so that can’t hurt. I say forget about it. Ignore her and go on. She is one of this new breed calling themselves investigative reporters and she is doing her job, which is to sell newspapers. The thing to remember is that she also sells books. Just don’t, under any circumstances, lose your temper with her. Then she can say something that is true. She can say you lost your temper when questioned.”
“I know how to handle it.” Rita looked thoughtful as she spoke. “Let the press conference be mine. That way, the reporters can direct their questions to me and I can ask Rann or Hal for information we want them to give.”
George Pearce took a long drink from his glass. “That’s a good idea, Rita. It seemed logical to me that you should answer their questions.”
“Of course it is. After all, at this point it is I who have spent a million dollars. That, my dears, is still news.”
They all laughed.
“There is one other point I’d like your advice on.” Rann stirred the fire as he spoke. “I had thought I’d call Senator Easton and offer to answer any questions he might have. I have nothing to hide and this way we might bring things to a head.”
“Just let it rest,” George said. “Let him call you if he wants to. You haven’t done anything—so forget it.”
“You are right, George.” Rita rose from the couch. “And now I have to get home or I probably won’t be there tomorrow.”
Rann said good night to them at the door and returned to the fire to finish his own drink.
“THERE IS NOTHING MORE FOR her to say, Mother.”
Rann was sitting in his grandfather’s study with his mother and Donald Sharpe. They had arrived on an afternoon flight and his mother was settled in his guest room while Donald Sharpe had chosen a small neighborhood hotel in the next block as his headquarters, and Sung had worked for two days to prepare the first dinner to be served to the mother of his young master. It was already dark in New York at five o’clock and the chill in the air promised that winter was not far away. The fire burned brightly in the grate as Sung refilled their glasses from a pitcher of Bloody Marys he had prepared earlier, and the aroma of hot Chinese hors d’oeuvres roasting in the oven filled the apartment.
Rann continued, “Nancy Adams has said everything she can say. She blew this whole thing up and involved Senator Easton. I went to Washington and answered questions for his committee. General Appleby flew in from Korea and told of all the arrests they had made there and that was all there was to it.”
“Well”—his mother frowned—“she could have written an article reporting the outcome. She could have said that you are innocent after all the nasty things she implied.”
“Rann is right, Susan. Reporters seldom write articles stating they were mistaken in the first place, and it would certainly be out of character for Nancy Adams. Rann is a public figure now. His book is still number one on all the lists. He simply has to put up with what they say and go on with his work, which brings me around to this.” Donald Sharpe pulled a thin black leather attaché case onto his knees and snapped open the latch, removing a large manila envelope. “It’s your father’s manuscript, Rann. Your mother gave it to me to read some time ago and it’s so good I think you should do something with it.”
“It doesn’t seem to me that I can expand his basic ideas any further than he has already done. I think he has made his point. I am glad to have it, however, and I’ll read it again and try to figure some way in which it could be useful in publication. I think it should be published if possible because it is a beautiful piece of work and it represents a great deal of my father’s time and study. Also, as you know, I agree so completely with his theories regarding art and science.”
“And I too, as you also know.” Donald Sharpe rose and placed the manuscript in the center of the large green blotter on the desk under the window, where Rann had moved it so that he could look out when he glanced up from his work. It was among the few changes Rann had made in the apartment since the death of his grandfather.
He enjoyed the visit from his mother and Donald Sharpe. Donald Sharpe returned to Ohio after one week but before he left Rann arranged a dinner party so that his mother could meet George Pearce and Margie and so they could both meet Rita Benson. They were impressed with Rita and George, as everyone was, but both appreciated Margie’s down-to-earth approach to Rann and his career. After Donald Sharpe left, Rann and his mother had luncheon with George and Margie, then had dinner and went to the theatre with Rita.
“I like your friends, Rann,” his mother said to him. They were in the drawing room, where Sung had served them a late drink when they arrived home after the theatre.
Rann smiled at her. “Even Rita Benson, Mother?”
His mother sensed his teasing. “Yes, perhaps particularly Mrs. Benson, after Margie, of course. She is not at all the way the newspapers make her out to be.”
“People are rarely what newspapers make them out to be. I’m glad that you approve of my friends, Mother.” Rann spoke the truth. He knew he would continue as he was even if she disapproved, but it was good to have her approval.