“He wasn’t part of the family corruption. I know that. But he wasn’t above making deals.”
“Yes, Jason. I’m afraid that’s true. Probably Fred has given you his version of the dealings?”
“Is there another version?”
“Where Fred sees ambition, I might have seen idealism.”
Idealist Robert Forrester. Right up there with virtuous Harry Bright. Or frugal Katie Boyer. “I don’t know him very well, Nathan, but that’s hard to believe.”
“I’m speaking of years past. I know he’s not a friendly person, and he has an aristocratic bearing that can be unwelcoming. But aristocrats sometimes have a surprising sense of responsibility, of noblesse oblige, and Bob once had real plans concerning social justice.”
“And now?” I asked.
“I’m not sure he still has those concerns.”
He’d gained power. “Idealism is hard to maintain in a place like the Senate.”
“Yes, Jason,” Nathan said. “I expect you understand that.”
“There must be people who survive having power.”
“Only if there is something stronger in their life, some higher purpose.”
“But what?” I asked, but then there was the roar of many cylinders, and Eric and Katie blew in.
Katie had the goods, a dozen bags at least. She shoved half at Eric, two at me, and kept the rest.
“Now, go,” she said. “We will only barely make it.”
“This is going to be so cool,” Eric said.
Katie’s we was really an I. Within forty minutes I was showered, sitting by the fireplace in my high society suit, with new shirt and tie. Just before six, Eric pranced in to join me.
“Check it out,” he said.
He, too, was also wearing new tie, brown leather, and shirt, black linen. Dark brown corduroys, black shoes, a flash of purple socks. No jacket.
There should be a Nobel for whatever it is that Katie does. With our black hair and dark complexion, I never touch brown. Eric could have walked into a Manhattan architecture firm and looked like one of the partners. His spiky hair was a lethal weapon; he had learned to do that to himself somewhere in college.
“I’m charging you for Katie’s time. She makes you look so classy, it’s worth money.”
“It’s just the real me coming out.”
“Then it’s been buried real deep for about twenty-five years.”
I was only three years older, but I was going to dinner as an adult, and he still got to be a child.
And then we waited, each of us deep within his own specially constructed aura of style and presence. At six fifteen I thought about peeking in the television room for a slice of our Channel Six interview, but I knew it wouldn’t be on until at least six thirty. The recorder would get it and we would enjoy it at our leisure.
At six thirty we stood in awe. Sky blue silk. Glistening pearls and pearl-white shoes. Auburn hair, with more life in it than in most people.
“You’re gorgeous,” I stammered.
Smile of pearls. “Thank you, Jason. I want to look my best for you.”
“I didn’t know it got this good.”
Sweet smile again. “Then let’s go show this senator a thing or two,” she said.
Formality would place Eric next to me in the car and Katie in the back seat, but I would have none of it. This lady sat at my side. The dress cost at least two thousand, and once she wore it to the Forresters’, she could never be seen in it again. I wanted maximum appreciation.
29
Birds of a feather flock together; we did not have far to go from our nest to theirs. The sky was dim. The sun had places to go and things to do and so did we, so we parted company with it. It left a few clouds behind, but not many, and some warmth.
A few trees were getting bare but most were in full glory. In the twilight they were dull until our headlights kindled them into flame-red and gold and yellow.
At just five minutes after seven our forces breached the moat and came to the courtyard of the oldest old money in the state. This was the mansion that Melvin’s grand estate was trying to be.
We dismounted and a young retainer took our steed away. The drawbridge lowered and we were ushered into the hall.
“Mr. Spellman has just arrived,” the squire informed us. “He is in the library.”
We, too, were taken to the library, where we found not only Friar Tuck but also the Sheriff of Nottingham himself.
I considered my adversary carefully. The senator, tall and straight as ever, crowned with dignity and silver hair, possessed every quality that could make him impregnable: office, wealth, reputation, family, height.
“Bob,” Fred murmured, “you know Jason, of course. This is Katie, and Eric.” It wasn’t proper for Fred to introduce my family, but it was less awkward. The senator and I were only acquainted through business, not socially, so I didn’t really have standing myself to introduce him to others.
And, of course, we had also now traded public insults and were on the verge of war, not that this would technically affect our proper behavior toward each other. I watched for clues of how the evening was scheduled to unfold.
He stiffly shook my hand and bowed to the lady. Eric’s age and avant-garde appearance were a problem, whether he qualified for a handshake or a pat on the head. He got the shake-his hair would have impaled the senatorial hand.
And then we were through the first indignity. Everyone had been introduced and we were no longer aliens. The next issue was polite conversation. Certainly the host would have a plan to avoid that. On cue, the library door opened. With maximum drama the granddaughters entered.
And they were all that Eric was hoping for.
The first was a Botticelli, dusky blond, blithe and carefree in a casual yellow sleeveless dress and thin white sweater. Cheerful blue eyes rested immediately on Eric, lighthearted smile shone as the sun.
But directly following came a Raphael, poised and deep, luminous green eyes beneath lustrous brown hair, carefully arrayed in a burgundy pullover and tan slacks. This smile rested on Eric as the silver moon shining on a cloudless night.
Their attention to him centered the attention of us all.
Dark young Boyer was the lone and towering pine, the brooding thundercloud caught in the rays of Sun and Moon. A genial grin slowly lifted the corners of his mouth but his eyes were enigma, unfathomable.
“These are my granddaughters,” the senator said. “Genevieve.” The blonde international economist. “Madeleine.” The brunette European historian. Katie had known perfectly how to dress our young cavalier to match these damsels. “Jason and Katie Boyer”- the introduction was continuing-“And this is Eric Boyer.”
This was his moment. Don’t say anything stupid, Eric. Please. Or just do it and get it over with.
“Je suis ravi de vous rencontrer,” he said.
I do remember more than six words of French, but not as many as he was using. He cocked his head to the side a little and let the smile grow. “J’esperais avoir ce plaisir.”
“Nous avons beaucoup entendu parlen de vous,” Madeleine said, glowing.
“Et maintenant nous commes face a face.” Not only was he saying his own words, he was understanding hers.
Genevieve sparkled. “Rencontrer une personne vaut mieux que d’en entendre parler.” She giggled and said to her sister, “Je t’avais dit qu’il etait mignon.”
Eric blushed. Mignon I knew, and it was not helpful to the situation. She’d told Madeleine she thought he was cute.
“Tais-toi!” Madeleine said. “Tu ne devrais pas dire ca!”
“Mais je peux dire que vous etes touts les deux ravissantes,” he said. Now he was calling them beautiful, which they were, and things were getting out of hand.
“Now, Eric,” said Katie, “don’t use all your compliments at once.” For a moment her own light had been eclipsed, but only for a moment. Her colors were Monet, but her essence was Rembrandt, stronger in character, and deeper and more powerful in meaning than any Italian master, and worth ten times as much. “We have the whole evening.”