They went to the kitchen. CJ steeped a pot of ginseng, and they retreated to the sofas, where Luna curled up at Jonas's feet. He petted the dog gently, asked how she was doing. The scene tugged at CJ's heart: no one knew she'd adopted Luna because Elinor wouldn't allow Jonas to have a dog.
"Too messy."
"Too much work."
"No point," Elinor had said when Jonas had left for boarding school at age twelve.
So when CJ had moved to the cottage, Luna had joined her. The Lab offered a beloved canine connection whenever Jonas had a chance to stop by.
"What's going on, CJ? What has my mother done?"
"I'm not really sure. Tell me what you know."
"I think she's having an affair. Is she?"
CJ averted her eyes. "Perhaps you'd better ask her."
"Are you kidding? Me? Ask the buttoned-up Elinor Harding Young-the woman who used her maiden name before anyone else did, who wouldn't discuss Janice's abortion because she found it 'unpleasant,' who suggested I 'mind my own business' when I asked why she and Dad sleep in separate bedrooms-you want me to ask that woman if she's having an affair?"
Mac and Elinor slept in separate bedrooms? If CJ had been Poppy, she might have gasped.
She hauled her thoughts back to Jonas, to the subject-of-the-moment, to the fact that he was still so little-boy cute when he was befuddled. His freckles grew more pronounced; his dimples-his dents, he'd once called them-seemed to sink more adorably into his cheeks.
CJ's creativity; Malcolm's dimples.
She cleared her throat. "Jonas," she said, "I know it's not easy. But if your mother is having an affair, she probably wants to keep it to herself."
"But she's being blackmailed!"
Along with Jonas's creativity came sensitivity, a need to protect the people he loved. Another thing CJ had passed down to him. "Are you sure?" she asked slowly. Maybe he'd simply overheard E on the phone.... Maybe...
"I saw the damn note! It was in her pocketbook. It's not like I go in there, but I was looking for the garage keys. And there it was, with letters that looked like they'd been cut out of a magazine. It said something about lavender lace panties and a half million dollars." He chugged his tea as if it were a beer.
If she'd spent her adult life in Washington as Elinor had, CJ might have known how to respond more adroitly, might have been more adept at verbal ping-pong.
"Do you know about this?" Jonas asked before she had conjured a response.
Well, she couldn't lie, of course, not when asked a direct question. "I know you need to trust that everything really will turn out okay."
He squared his jaw and folded his hands. "And my dad doesn't know?"
"Not that I'm aware of."
"Well, she's really done it now, hasn't she? Just in time for my engagement party." He no doubt was remembering when Elinor had missed the first high school play he had stage-managed, or when she'd mistakenly scheduled the ladies' cruise to Bermuda the same weekend as his Broadway debut. For someone who had wanted another child so badly, Elinor often forgot Jonas existed when her agenda was deemed more important.
He stood up. "So I guess she doesn't want input from me."
CJ stood, too. "She'll figure it out, Jonas." She gently touched his sleeve, as if it were his heart and she could mend it.
"And I shouldn't tell Janice."
"No."
"Or my father."
"No."
"And you want me to stay out of it."
"Yes."
"For my father's sake?"
"And your mother's. It will be for the best."
"I love them both, but I'm not sure I can do that." He kissed her cheek again and let himself out, and CJ started to ache.
"I'd like to speak with the vice president," Elinor said, when she'd finally screwed up her nerve, located his number from Malcolm's long list of contacts, and steadied her hand long enough to punch in the numbers.
It was late afternoon-she'd thought about this all day. She'd paced the house and the grounds of the Mount Kasteel estate and landed in the living room, next to the sideboard that held the crystal pitcher that had come from Remy way back when.
She'd had one phone call from Alice, telling her they hadn't learned anything concrete at the Lord Winslow, but there was a lead they would follow up on tomorrow.
Elinor didn't ask for specifics: she was too preoccupied thinking about Remy.
He needed to know what was going on. She convinced herself that if word leaked out, it would affect his life, too. His wife's life, his daughter's. The life of the whole damn nation.
Well, maybe not the whole nation. The blue states would love it; the red states would be livid.
"This is Mrs. Young. Elinor Young. The vice president has spoken with me about my recommendations for national health care matters."
"I'm sorry, the vice president is occupied. If you'd care to leave your number..."
Remy, of course, never returned phone calls; he had "people" to do that for him. He often joked that the last time he'd dialed a phone was when there had been actual dials, not buttons. He didn't have a private cell phone, either. He said they weren't very "private," at least not for a VP.
Which was, of course, why-after nearly seven months into their affair-he always made contact through an obscure, handwritten invitation or a mysterious call: "The toilets will arrive tomorrow at one o'clock. Your driver will pick you up and bring you to the delivery area."
The driver, of course, was Remy's driver. The delivery area was never disclosed. Elinor had learned to simply stand on the sidewalk in front of her town house and wait for the long black limo and the driver who only tipped his hat and never even said hello or good-bye.
Even their New York connections had been cloak-and-dagger, spy-novel stuff, coinciding with Remy's twice-monthly meetings at the United Nations. She would check into the suite (the same one every time) and spend all afternoon, evening, and sometimes into the night wondering when-if-he would show up for their hour of bliss, give or take.
She shuddered a little. Was her cell number now displayed on the caller ID screen at Remy's admin's desk? But this was the first time she'd called. Surely it would be safe.
"It's rather urgent," Elinor said. "There's been a change in directives that will affect our next meeting." She was both amused and impressed by her ciphered message.
There was a pause, then the admin said, "One moment, please."
She felt a flutter of anticipation, the kind she'd felt the first time he'd undone her pearl buttons and fucked her in his dining room.
Would he take her call? Would he dismiss senators or congressmen or whoever was in his office "occupying" him?
A lump of trepidation found its way into her throat. What if he was with another woman?
She laughed. Remy barely had time for her. He'd never have time for a harem.
Still, Elinor clutched the phone more tightly than necessary.
"Elinor?" She heard Remy's voice, just as another voice came from the doorway of the music room.
"Mom?" It was Jonas.
Elinor smiled at her son and quickly flipped the phone shut. "Hello, dear," she said, standing and dropping the phone into her purse. "I was confirming floral arrangements for the party. The details can be such a bore."
"Mom," he said, "we need to talk."
"I swear Betts asked me to handle the flowers because she thinks I have your dad's talent for that kind of thing."
"Mom..."
And then her phone rang in her purse. Remy, of course, would be calling back. She slung her purse over her shoulder. "Not now, honey," she said, striding across the room toward the terrace, hoping she'd get outside before the damn phone stopped ringing.
"Is this Elinor Young?" It was a male's voice, but not Remy's.
"Yes," she replied. Perspiration had formed on her upper lip; she tried to steady her voice. It must be Remy's driver on the other end of the line.
"Do you have the cash?"
The late-day sun radiated off the water lily pond that served as a centerpiece for the topiaries. Elinor was blinded, paralyzed. Finally, she blinked. "What?"
"The cash. The half million. Do you have it?"
Her throat felt as if Mac was standing on it, wearing the big boots that he wore when he planted trees in the garden. "I will," she said. "By Friday."
"Good," he said, then hung up without leaving instructions.
Elinor shut off the phone, dropped onto a chaise, and stared helplessly, hopelessly at the trees.
"Mom?" came Jonas's voice again. "Please, Mom. We really do need to talk."
Eighteen.
"It's a bloody size sixteen," Alice wailed into the phone at Poppy. Neal wasn't home again, so Alice had poured a generous glass of wine and decided to rehearse the role that Poppy had convinced her to play tomorrow. It would be more fun than making dinner for one. But despite the slight menopausal spread of her hips, the dress hung on her frame like a discount-store window drape. "I know I'm bigger than the rest of you, but I'm a ten, Poppy. Not a sixteen."
Poppy sighed. "I bet Yolanda can help. She's domestic, isn't she?"
"Just because she cleans her own house and cooks her own meals I don't think that automatically means she knows how to sew."
"I bet she does," Poppy repeated. "Let's bring it over to her place."
"I'll pick you up in thirty minutes." Alice didn't ask if Duane was home. Long ago, the women had stopped asking about each other's husbands. They'd learned life was less dramatic that way, Elinor's current situation serving as a clear case in point.
Poppy changed from the demure summer suit she'd worn to the Lord Winslow into chocolate-colored jeans, high-heeled sandals, and a clingy turquoise top. If she had to go to Yolanda's, she might as well look as good as she could.
"Well," said Duane, "don't you look like a hottie."
Poppy responded with a tiny smile, because she knew how well the jeans hugged her round little ass.
"Come here," Duane said. "I want to have my way with you." He had that twinkle in his eye that she hadn't seen for a while, not since he'd started taking pictures after dark. Was it because he, indeed, was Elinor's lover and/or blackmailer and the danger totally turned him on?
"I'd love to, but Alice is picking me up. We're on a mission for poor Elinor. There's an engagement party in Washington this weekend and she's frantic right now." He didn't seem to wince when she mentioned Elinor's name.
"There's an engagement party and we're not invited?"
"It's only for Washington people, Duane. You know how they are." Well, of course he didn't, but that didn't matter.
He patted the sofa cushion next to him. "Five minutes," he said, then added, "please?"
Saying no might get her in trouble. Poppy checked her watch. She supposed five minutes would satisfy his unex pected need. Besides, if he really was involved in this muddle, Poppy didn't want him to think they were onto him and give him time to come up with a lie.
And, she supposed, a little sex wouldn't hurt Poppy, either, in case Manny showed up at Yolanda's. There was something about Manny's eyes, his smile, and his shiny gold badge...
When Poppy was a girl, Momma had told her it was always wise to masturbate before a date. She hadn't, of course, used that word. But she'd given Poppy a pretty little pink dildo, and told her to use it in her "special place" so she wouldn't be tempted to give in to her she-devil and let the boy do things she'd regret.
Duane wasn't a pink dildo, and Manny wasn't a teenager, but if Poppy had learned anything in life, it was that Momma usually was right.
All things considered, she should unzip her jeans, go to her husband, and let him have his way so Yolanda's brother would not.
But Poppy was Poppy, and if there was one thing she was no good at, it was pretending to love when she was no longer sure she did. She'd learned that with husbands number one and number two.
"Sorry," she said with an apologetic smile. "But we're already late."
"You're being blackmailed," Jonas said. "Don't lie, I saw the note."
Elinor blinked again. "What?" Her thoughts reeled. She couldn't gather a response.
"I read the note. About the panties."
Well, she could have died right there on the chaise; in fact, dying would have been preferable to having this discussion with her grown-up son.
Instead of dying, Elinor laughed. Would Jonas dare challenge her if she laughed?