Olivia's Triumph

PART 1

THE DEEPENING SHADOW, 1988

CHAPTER ONE

Olivia squinted a bit as she looked down at the Georgetown University crew team practicing on the Potomac. Her son Charles had been right, as he always was, about moving their offices to Washington Harbor. Now, at the end of a hectic day they could watch the sun set over the Potomac, sending jagged shafts of orange and silver glistening and sparkling off the water and the mirrored buildings of Rosslyn. And to have the top three floors—it was sheer heaven!

Today is the first day of spring, she thought, and the birthday of my mother of blessed memory.

Spring! Glorious spring! Nowhere in the world is it as magnificent as it is right here in my city. Now, if only I didn’t have these damnable pains in my abdomen.

And even though I asked for it, I dread this confrontation with Gilbert, child of my loins, bane of my existence—the one tragic relationship in my life.

She walked across the room to the wet bar and checked the two carefully prepared trays. One held pastries suitable for late afternoon tea, green grapes, and a wedge of Brie with water biscuits. On the other tray her secretary, Barbara, had placed Charles’s favorite sherry, Gil’s cognac, Baccarat glasses, and an Old Imari teapot with freshly brewed tea for her.

Such elaborate preparations I make for tea with my two sons she thought as she turned back to her desk, sat down, and opened the center drawer. She looked in the cleverly concealed magnifying mirror, touched up her lipstick, powdered her nose, and patted her soft French twist to smooth two offending tendrils.

I’m as vain as ever. Old age and illness remove none of one’s vanity.

As if on cue, Barbara’s voice sounded over the speaker phone. Senator, your son Gilbert has arrived. Shall I send him in?

Yes, Barbara, and please buzz Charles and ask him to join us. No matter how often she asked Barbara to call her Mrs. Dunay, she could be sure that at certain times she’d hear the old Senator slip out. As if Barbara needed to remind Gilbert that he was only a state senator, while his mother had held the coveted title of United States Senator. Ah, Barbara, such loyalty is gratifying to an old woman!

She wiped her hands against her skirt to dry the clamminess that had been there since lunchtime. Damn it, why am I so nervous today? Why do I let my son intimidate me?

Gilbert burst through the door, and she stood up and walked toward him, offering him her cheek to kiss, astonished once more to see how devastatingly sexy he still was at fifty-three.

Unlike many businessmen, Gil refused to use hair spray. Consequently, his dark brown, slightly wavy hair always seemed to need combing. Somehow, Olivia thought, it adds to his roguish quality, which women find so charming. That, and the teasing twinkle in his almost-black eyes.

Mother, you look glorious—more like Audrey Hepburn every day!

So typical of Gil, charm oozing out of him like venom from a rattlesnake’s fangs! But no sooner had that thought crossed Olivia’s mind than she chastised herself for it. I’ve got to stop thinking about my son like that. It only makes matters worse between us.

Hmm. I don’t think Miss Hepburn would appreciate hearing that, my dear, since she’s young enough to be my daughter, and her hair isn’t quite the color of cotton—at least not yet.

Actually, she was quite charmed when I told her last summer that she bore a striking resemblance to my famous mother.

Gill, you didn’t!

Of course I did. We met her at one of Helene Rothschild’s Paris dinners. He held her at arm’s length and looked her up and down. You look wonderful in blue, Mother. Is it Adolfo?

Two of the things she disliked most about Gilbert and his wife, Winslow, were their constant name-dropping and their obsession with status symbols. Had she been like that once herself? She cringed at the thought. No, my dear, it’s Chanel. One of the pleasures of not being in politics anymore is being able to shop abroad. I suppose that’s one luxury Winslow can’t enjoy now, with you running for the Senate.

At that moment the door opened to admit Charles. Calmly, deliberately, he walked toward Gil and offered his hand. Reluctantly, Gilbert quickly shook his brother’s hand.

Olivia’s heart fluttered at the sight of Charles. He was the mirror-image of his father: identical chestnut-colored, wavy hair, deep blue eyes, confident stride. Do they pass that commanding-officer attitude in their genes?

It’s been a long time. How are you? Charles asked his brother with genuine feeling.

So like his father, Olivia thought. A straight shooter, overflowing with integrity. Sometimes too much.

Okay. And you? A dismissal, ending the small talk.

Gil sat down in the club chair beside the sofa. Mother, what’s on your mind today?

First, she answered as she turned toward the bar, let me get each of you a drink.

Here, let me help you with those trays. Charles rushed to her side, carrying the heavier tray to the coffee table in front of the sofa.

Olivia followed with the pastry. How tense we all are, she thought as she sipped her tea after they had all been served. I’ve asked you to meet with me today, she began, but then started over. "Well, it has been a while, Gil—since last Thanksgiving? The only reason I know about your political plans is because I follow Maryland politics in the Post." She paused, looking at their faces. It’s a shame I see so little of you and Winslow. Of course, I keep up with you through your children.

Gilbert strained to produce a pleasant tone. What exactly is on your mind, Mother? I was very busy this afternoon, had to cancel two meetings to be here. Barbara said it was something very urgent.

Yes. I haven’t revised my will in twenty-six years, and after all, I am eighty-one now. It seems that the time has come to do it, to include specific bequests for each of your children. She looked from Gilbert’s face to Charles’s. They waited for her to continue.

It’s not just the businesses. I’ve four homes and jewels.

Yes. Gilbert nodded, his eyes narrowing. Exactly what is your net worth, Mother?

Olivia sighed as an immense wave of sadness passed through her. She had no heart for this meeting. Charles can probably answer that better than I.

Many millions, Charles announced matter-of-factly. Enough for generations to come—invested properly, of course.

Gilbert looked Olivia squarely in the eyes. You’ll do exactly what you want to, Mother. I’ve no doubt of it. You’ll turn everything over to Charles. The bitterness in his voice was shocking.

Olivia imagined the steel glint in Charles’s eyes at that moment, but because of the way they were seated, she could see only the back of his head. She watched Gilbert flinch under his brother’s cold scrutiny—and was furious with herself for having allowed their relationship degenerate to this level.

Actually, I’ve a special project that has been on my mind for a long time, and I’d like to get it started this week. That’s why I said it was urgent and for you to come today. I want to start a foundation.

Oh, shit! You mean you want to give away our inheritance!

Hear me out, Gilbert. I want to take a small portion of the Dunay estate, fifty million, and establish a foundation and think-tank to explore ways to encourage Israelis and Palestinians to cooperate toward a two state solution. I’m appalled at the way Israelis treat Palestinians. It reminds me of the way we Europeans stole land from the Native Americans. The foundation would also support Jewish initiatives like the Holocaust Museum here in Washington.

For christsake, that’s the worst idea I’ve ever heard. When did you get so religious? For a lifetime you’ve avoided being Jewish, and now you want to advertise it to the whole world."

Mother, I think it’s a splendid idea, Charles said. How can we help?

Thank you, Charles. I appreciate your support. She turned her attention back to Gilbert. I’d like you both to be on the board of directors, along with one of your children and my niece Sidney. Five people, in case it’s necessary to break a tie vote. You’ll meet twice a year to determine how to distribute the funds. It’s really quite simple and it won’t take up much of your time.

Damn it, Mother, what are you trying to do? Destroy my political career?

I fail to see how giving money to Jewish causes can hurt you in Maryland.

Winslow and I belong to St. Francis Episcopal Church in Potomac. Everyone thinks of us as Wasps. How can I suddenly give away millions for Jewish causes? Gilbert had stood and was pacing back and forth, gesturing with his brandy snifter.

But Gil, the Jews are one of the largest voting blocs in Montgomery County. And Baltimore County too. I should think it would be to your advantage.

Absolutely not! I wash my hands of this whole thing. What about the voting power of the fundamentalists? If you’ve got so much money to give away, why don’t you establish a fund for my political career? I could use a steady source of political money.

Charles stared at his brother, commanding him to return the look. No one said a word for a long time. Then Charles said quietly, About three weeks ago, I looked at the books, Gil. You drew twelve million out of Dunay International last year. That should be enough to live on splendidly, pay your gambling debts, and still have plenty of money left over for politics.

But how do I know the money will always be there for me to draw on? You know, Mother, my ambition doesn’t end with the state senate. I have my eye on bigger things.

God help us, Olivia thought. But he was her son. And she, of all people, understood political ambition.

Mother, I have an idea that might solve your problem, Charles volunteered. Instead of putting me on the board, ask Emily. She’d be thrilled, she’d make it her life’s work, and you know how competent she is. Then ask two of Gil’s children, and of course Sidney.

Olivia thought of Charles’s wife, her beloved daughter-in-law, Emily Bradford Loomis Dunay. A thirteenth-generation American who had chosen out of intellectual and emotional conviction—and no small amount of love for Charles—to convert to Judaism. Emily put all the Dunays to shame.

Why didn’t I think of that? We’ll make Emily president of the foundation. And then perhaps your Brad will serve with her, and Larissa and Scot can represent Gil’s family since he doesn’t wish to participate directly.

I can’t control my children—you know that, Mother. Not where you’re concerned. You’ve already been beatified, and soon they’ll promote you to sainthood.

You’ve got your religions mixed up, old boy! Charles quipped sarcastically.

What I don’t understand is why you’ve suddenly found religion. You haven’t been inside a synagogue since Landow died, and the only reason you went with him was to further his political career. That’s about as hypocritical as a person can be.

Olivia flinched at Gilbert’s reference to his stepfather, the late U. S.Senator from Connecticut, but she recovered quickly. Then I’m to believe that you and Winslow attend the Episcopalian Church out of religious piety. She couldn’t resist a wicked smile.

Charles laughed, thoroughly enjoying his mother’s put-down of Gil.

Gil forcefully placed the empty snifter on the table, causing the crystal to chime. "Is that all? I’ve got to be going."

No, it’s not. Olivia’s voice was suddenly imperious. I haven’t seen you since Thanksgiving, Gil, and I think twelve million a year should buy me more than thirty minutes of your time. Sit down. I want to give you a serious answer to your question. She felt her full confidence return, her nervousness evaporating.

About three years ago I had the privilege of dining with Elie Wiesel. We talked about your grandparents, and the time they spent in the Warsaw ghetto. They were eminent doctors and had been living a completely assimilated, cultured life in Warsaw. They were part of the intelligentsia, participating and contributing to the well-being of their fellow citizens, and by their teachings and writings, to the practice of medicine worldwide. She pressed an escaping tendril of hair back in place, then continued.

They, too, had not been inside a synagogue in years. In 1937 I spent some time with them in Paris, and I asked them if they were fearful of Hitler. They told me Hitler would persecute only religious Jews, not those who had become agnostics. I can only tell you, they were dreadfully, fatally wrong.

All that happened years ago, Mother. It’s time we forgot it.

"Elie Wiesel said to me, ‘It takes courage to be a Jew. It takes courage to acknowledge what you are in this century.’ I have been a long time arriving at that kind of courage, I have spent a lifetime trying to avoid the hard truth of my roots. But it’s never too late. Emily, God love her, and my grandchildren have set the example for me.

And now I think maybe I have as much courage as they. I want to do this. I want to do it for your father Claude’s parents and for dear Douglas. She looked fleetingly at Charles, tears welling up in her eyes. But most of all, I need to do it for myself because it’s the right think to do.

I’m sure you’ll do whatever you want, Gilbert said coldly. You always have.

Olivia nodded, feeling his bitterness. And yet for years she had tried to make life easy for him, to be certain he had everything he needed or wanted. Maybe that had been a mistake. At least his chilcren hadn’t absorbed his bitterness—they were a joy, every one of them. I presume you and Winslow wil be coming to dinner Sunday? Black tie at eight at Pennyfield Manor.

Mother, have you gone bonkers? Who gives black-tie parties at home on Sunday night? And what’s so special about this Sunday? It’s not your birthday.

I want to have all my loved ones, my heirs, together, looking their best, to tell them about my revised will. Surely you and Winslow are interested.

We may be interested, but we have two other engagements.

Cancel them, Charles interrupted.

Gilbert looked at Charles with all the scorn he could muster. Look, I don’t know what you two are cooking up, but if I’m not treated fairly in your will, Mother, I promise I’ll contest it. When I do, the scandalous sex life of the famous Olivia Dunay will be spread across the front pages of every major paper in the world. Do you really want that?

Charles rose threateningly. That’s enough, Gill!

What’re you going to do, hit me?

Charles towered over Gilbert menacingly. I think you’ve said quite enough.

Gilbert walked toward the door. As he turned the knob, Olivia said, I’ll be expecting you Sunday, Gil. And please tell Winslow to wear her prettiest dress. Give her my love.

Mother, why this urgency about your will? Gilbert asked impatiently. Are you sick or something?

Yes. I have intestinal cancer. Surgery is scheduled for two weeks from Thursday.

Oh! He paused and looked hard at her, then added, I’m sorry. She didn’t miss the slight lilt of happiness in his voice, as the door closed behind him.

He wants me to die.

It was as if a hammer and chisel had chipped away one more piece of her heart.

She sat still, trying to gain the strength to stand and walk to her desk where her pocketbook held a handkerchief. She didn’t want to cry in front of Charles.

He turned to her just as she stood up. Mother, he said as he wrapped his arms around her, I’m so sorry, so sorry he’s—such a bastard!

He held her while her body shook for a few moments, as if she were suddenly freezing cold. Can I get you something? How about some sherry?

Yes, that would be fine.

Charles lowered her back into the chair and quickly crossed the room to the bar. He has one hell of a nerve threatening you with a sex scandal, when he’s been involved in every possible kind of love affair.

Oh, I don’t know. Everyone seems to sleep around these days. He does. Winslow does. All their jet-set crowd does. But it’s only a threat, don’t you think?

Damn it all, Mother, he makes me so mad! You and I spend a lifetime getting him out of trouble—literally keeping him out of jail, out of the newspapwers, propping up his political career. And look at the way he treats you! It was all I could do to keep from beating the shit out of him right here in the office!

My goodness, such language! Charles, you’d better calm down. You’re not a young man anymore. We don’t need to have the chief executive officer of Dunay International in the hospital, along with his mother! She lifted a frail, blue-veined hand to her lips and sipped her sherry, then reached for a grape.

Charles watched her. You really can’t bring yourself to be critical of your son, can you, Mother?

"What I think about my children and grandchildren remains inside my head and heart; what I say to anyone else, including you, Charles, is another matter. And you know I love and trust you dearly."

Yes, Mother, I know. He smiled affectionately.

You know, sometimes I wonder about Gilbert’s attractiveness to voters. Every four years he gets reelected in spite of his life-style, his gambling, Winslow’s incredible jewels and clothes, and their homes. I’m surprised it hasn’t backfired.

Are you kidding? Look at the Kennedys! Look at the Reagans! What are the most popular soaps on TV? The more glamorous the life-style, the more the public adores politicians and stars. And if their life-styles and friends have a slight twist of wickedness about them, so much the better!

Maybe you’re right.

And now I think it’s time for you to call Marc and head home. It’s been a taxing day for you.

Actually, I’d like to be alone for a few minutes to collect my thoughts and pack my briefcase. You run along now—and do tell Emily I want her to be president of my foundation.

You can tell her yourself tomorrow, when she takes you to the doctor. I’m sure she’d rather hear it from you. She adores you, you know.

Yes, dear, and the feeling is quite mutual. Now, you get back to work, or I shall have to fire my CEO!

He stood, gave her a mock salute, then bent down and kissed her forehead. I love you, Mom.

Olivia sat facing the massive expanse of windows and let the late Tuesday afternoon noises wash over her. She could hear the occasional honking of cars and the constant swooshing of traffic, and from her vantage point, she could see planes coming in to land at National Airport, at least one every minute.

Weary and shaken as she was, the elegance of her office soothed her. It was furnished, like all her homes and offices, in a blend of French and English antiques, oriental rugs, and European and American Impressionist art. Her sister Sasha’s daughter, Sidney, had been her interior decorator for the last eighteen years. It was Sidney who had searched out the glorious objects and paintings that had come to mean so much to Olivia.

One of my character flaws is my outrageous love for things.

She finished the last drop of sherry and placed the glass on the bronze table—an original by Philip La Verne, one of her few concessions to contemporary craftsmanship. But then it wasn’t really contemporary, filled as it was with carved scenes of the Orient. Such beauty, such workmanship, such joy things like this table give me! I wish I weren’t so wedded to things. But in truth, contemplating beautiful things—and owning them— gives me more joy than the knowledge of my wealth and power.

This glistening navy-blue Kirman, for example, she thought as she eyed the carpet with pride. One of the last shipped from Iran before the shah’s fall. It measured fifteen by twenty-three feet, and when Sidney had shown it to her, they had decided to do the whole room around the rug. All the upholstered pieces would be the same shade of ivory, the second most prominent color in the rug, and the sofas would have navy-blue-velvet pillows for accent. Two Mary Cassatt oils adorned the walls, and a marble sculpture by Brancusi stood on a pedestal between the two massive windows.

Her secretary had instructions to play classical music tapes, especially Tchaikovsky, Rossini, and Debussy, throughout the day. Now the music and the scene calmed Olivia like a soothing balm.

She picked up the phone by her chair and pushed a button. Instantly, her butler, Antonio, answered at her Kalorama residence. Yes, Madame?

Antonio, I’ll be home is about an hour and a half. Please ask Rosa to have some of that wonderful minestrone for me. But first I’d like a nice Jacuzzi, and . . .a fire in my bedroom, I think. I’m feeling chilled today.

Then you won’t be going to the symphony this evening?

No, I’m too weary. Marc delivered the tickets to Sidney. Also, I’ve canceled cocktails with the Brickmans. So I’ll be home about six and then off to bed.

Madame, all the grandchildren have been calling. I told them they could reach you at the office. They’re most anxious to speak with you.

She thought of her grandchildren, scattered as they were to the four corners of the country—and abroad. After a bit of soup, I’ll phone them back. Any other calls?

"Yes, Madame. Mrs. Winslow Dunay and Mrs. Emily Dunay have both called.

Olivia smiled. Bad news traveled fast. Winslow hadn’t phoned in years. Emily she spoke with several times a day.

I’ll call them all back this evening. Good-bye, Antonio.

A few minutes later, Anna was ensconced in the back of her limousine, again listening to the soft music of Debussy, giving her driver Marc directions.

I’m feeling very nostalgic this afternoon, Marc. How about a sight-seeing trip?

Anything you’d like, Mrs. Dunay.

His soft Italian accent pleased her, just as his wife’s pleasant way as her personal maid suited her.

I’d like to drive around the Mall, then past the White House, down Pennsylvania Avenue to the Capitol, ending up on the Senate side. Then we’ll stop for a quick visit at the National Gallery. I promised Antonio I’d be home by six. Can we do all that by then?

Depends on the traffic. So far it isn’t too bad.

As Marc deftly maneuvered the long black car, Olivia’s mind traveled backward to the war years. How ugly the Mall had been then, with all those hastily build office barracks!

Her earliest memory of Washington, though, had been watching President Wilson ride up Pennsylvania Avenue in a horse-drawn carriage to his first inauguration. It had been March, 1913. Her mother, her sister, and two of her brothers had huddled together, refugees from Russia’s anti-Semitic policies. Her mother had been awed to the point of tears as she watched the President of the United States ride past them on his way to the White House. That a Russian immigrant could find freedom and a new life in the United States—and see the new President too! It was a treasured memory that her mother had carried with her to her grave, perhaps one of the most important days of her life.

What fun it had been years later, when her sister, Sasha, had been old enough to go with them on Sunday-afternoon excursions. Their favorite visit had been to the outer perimeters of the White House lawn. They would stand with their noses between the iron rails, watching the sheep munch on the grass. Once, only once, they caught a glimpse of President Wilson and his wife taking a Sunday-afternoon stroll inside the fence. He had waved to them. Their mother had repeated that story for years.

In later years, so many times they had walked the length of the Mall and back, dipping their toes into the wading pool, watching the ripples fan out. Then, just before World War II, the ugly temporary buildings had gone up, and it had seemed forever before they came down and the Mall was restored to the beauty L’Enfant had planned.

Yes, this was her city, the only place on earth she had ever wanted to live permanently.

Oh, so many memories this avenue holds for me! Olivia said, as much to herself as to Marc, as they drove down Pennsylvania Avenue, now clogged with rush-hour traffic. So many inaugural parades she’d watched, and funerals too. She had flown home from her post as ambassador to Austria to be here for President Kennedy’s funeral, one of the saddest days of her life. Many terrible things had happened to her during the war, but Kennedy’s death had hit her harder than some more personal events.

Marc came to a stop under the portico at the entrance to the Senate side of the Capitol. Will you be going in, Mrs. Dunay?

No, I think not. But if you’d just pull around and park over there, so I can see the Capitol in all its splendor. It may be the last time, she mused, that I ever see this magnificent building, my working home for so much of my life.

What a shame, she thought as she looked at the concrete barriers. After Kennedy’s assassination and Martin Luther King’s, we had soldiers with machine guns. Now we have permanent concrete barriers. And electronic detectors and pocketbook searches, even of former senators like myself! What terrible things have happened in my lifetime.

And what wonders! To think that I’ve led the marvelous life I have—and it may soon be ending. This magnificent institution, the Senate. I love the Senate with a fierce love. It is mankind’s greatest deliberative body, our government one of mankind’s greatest achievements. Oh, there are rogues and womanizers and thieves, just as in every other institution or corporation. But for the most part, the Senate is made up of our finest men and, thank God, now a few women.

It would be a travesty for Gilbert to be elected to the Senate! A disgrace, a black day in the history of Maryland. It mustn’t happen.

Brusquely, Olivia directed Marc to take her home. I’m wearier than I thought. I’d best get home and make those phone calls.

When Marc looked in the rearview mirror at Olivia, she saw his look of concern. So they know, she thought. All the servants know I’m ill.

Right away, Ma’am.

Sonia darling, I’m delighted to find you home! You’re so hard to track down. As she spoke into the telephone, Olivia visualized her favorite grandchild in New York. She would be barefoot, in faded jeans, an oversize T-shirt with some crazy emblem printed on it, and her long copper hair would be flying in every direction unless she had it tied back in a ponytail. How did filming go today?

We had a good day, Bubby, but that’s not what I want to talk about. Mom told me you’re . . .not well. I’m so upset, I could hardly concentrate today. . . . Her voice trailed off suddenly, and Olivia knew she was crying.

She spoke in her sternest voice. Look, Sonia, if President Reagan can recover from the same thing and run the country, I guess I can recover and run Dunay. Now, you stop worrying, and that’s an order from your ‘old bubby’!

Well, at least you don’t sound sick.

Did Barbara tell you about dinner on Sunday?

Yes, I’ll be coming in on the late shuttle Friday. Can I stay with you at Pennyfield?

I’d be delighted, if it’s all right with your parents. I expect some of your cousins will be staying with me too.

Terrific!

Now, I want you to do a special favor for me. Humor an old lady you love.

Anything, Bub!

"Go to Martha’s tomorrow and pick out the most elegant dress you can find, one that makes your opal eyes sparkle. I want you to look splendid, regal, the way your aunt Winslow looks when she really dresses. Comprenez-vous?"

Jeez, Sunday night’s dinner is gonna be that fancy?

I want you to look like a regal heiress. As she said the words, Olivia thought, If I could leave you everything, heart of my heart, I would. But that wouldn’t be fair to all the others. So I have to choose from among all my things those I think you want most, and I daren’t even ask you.

Bub, I hate all this talk of wills and stuff—it’s so morbid. I don’t need anything to remind me of you. But I do want you to get well. I want you to always be there for me.

I’ll try, sweetheart, but that’s not the way life is. So I must be prepared. She heard what sounded like snuffling on the other end. "Now tell me, why haven’t I seen more of you in W and Vogue and Bazaar? Public relations is fifty percent of the game—I’ve been trying to teach you and Karine that for years! You must concentrate on more publicity—especially with the Oscars coming up."

"C’mon, Bub! You don’t seriously think Stolen Moments will be nominated, do you? Only a grandmother would imagine that!"

Nonsense! The critics compared you to Ingmar Bergman—and you’re only twenty-seven. Imagine! Yes, I fully expect to see you in Hollywood next winter getting the Oscar for best picture—and best director. Both!

Great. That means two events where I’ll be able to wear that dress you want me to buy tomorrow! Bub, I do love your fantasies.

Historically, let me remind you, we Dunays have a way of making our fantasies reality. Don’t forget that, darling! And don’t forget you are speaking to your biggest financial backer. Thirty-three percent of Colossal Pictures, right?

Well, if you put it that way, she said laughing, I wouldn’t dream of disappointing my biggest fan and backer. I’ll look like a goddamned movie queen on Sunday night.

Wonderful! Cheerio now. I love you.

And I love you, Bub.

As she put the phone down, Olivia chuckled to herself at the Yiddish title for grandmother. She had not wanted to be called Bubby—she thought it too ethnic, too old world, and she had never looked the part. But Charles and Emily had rigorously insisted that their children call her Bubby. And Gilbert and Winslow had just as rigorously insisted that theirs call her Gram.

The phone jingled.

Gram, it’s me, Karine. Olivia smiled as Gil’s daughter’s breathless enthusiasm came through the phone. Mom tells me you’re having a party Sunday night and we’re all supposed to be there.

Right.

Will you wear one of my dresses if I bring it down Friday night? If it needs altering, I’ll fix it myself on Saturday.

Of course. I’d be thrilled to wear one of your designs.

I knew you’d say that. I began it today. I saw this gorgeous lace, the exact color of your tanzanite necklace and earrings, so I bought enough to make you a long dress. Now, let me describe it . . . .

Doesn’t this child ever breathe? Olivia thought as Karine continued her nonstop chatter.

An illusion top with a very low neckline, almost off the shoulder. Long sleeves, like you prefer. A nipped-in waist and a full skirt to the floor. Or would you like it midcalf length?

It sounds magnificent, but I think such a wonderful dress should be floor length. Perhaps I’ll wear it to the Academy Awards next winter. If it’s as beautiful as it sounds, I think I will.

"I can’t wait for you to see this dress. It’s the most beautiful lace I’ve ever seen. I just had to make it for you!"

You must let me pay you for the lace, Karine.

No way, Gram, absolutely not! This is my present. You’ve given me so much. Are you still a size six? Mom says you might be losing weight.

"If the dress fits you, it’ll fit me to perfection. Unless you’ve gained weight! Now, what will you be wearing?"

Oh, it’s so gorgeous! Royal-blue-silk organza, to the floor, in six-inch ruffles that cascade diagonally from the waist. A strapless sheared bodice. It’s to die for! And guess what? Your friend Martha is going to carry three of my designs this summer. Isn’t that fabulous?

It exhausts me to listen to you, my dear sweet talented grandchild, Olivia thought, but she said, That’s wonderful!

Gram, I’ve a favor to ask.

Yes?

Please loan me your sapphire ring and earrings, just for Sunday night, to go with the gown.

You don’t think they’re a bit. . . overwhelming for someone as young as you?

"I don’t mean those sapphires. I mean the studs surrounded by diamonds and the ring you never wear. They’re in one of those boxes of jewelry you never open."

My goodness, I’d totally forgotten those! Yes, your grandfather, Claude, gave me those sapphires just before he left for the war. I’d like you to have them. Permanently.

Oh no, Gram, I couldn’t.

Nonsense. I haven’t worn them in years, and you should have them because Claude gave them to me. I’ll find something equally nice for your sister Larissa. Then you’ll both have a piece of jewelry that your grandfather gave me.

Cool! That’s wonderful. I can’t wait. Can I stay with you, Gram? Or is your house full?

We’ll have a full house, I expect, but there’s plenty of room, you know that. You can share the lavender suite with Sonia. How’s that?

Awesome! See you Friday.

It’s going to be quite a weekend—exactly what I want. To see them one more time, maybe the last time. . .and hear their laughter and hopes and dreams. . . .

When the light on the telephone flashed, she picked up the phone, and punched the button.

Bub, it’s Elliot, she heard. Now what’s the scoop about this weekend?

Hello, darling! I need you to coordinate with your sister Jennifer about time and place. She has a rehearsal Saturday, so I’m sending the plane to Albuquerque to pick up you and Cheray and Jen and bring you here on Sunday. The problem is she has to be back in Santa Fe by Monday evening for another rehearsal.

Fine. I’ll work it out with Jen. Let’s just hope my bride’s feeling good enough to make the trip. Olivia could hear him smiling when he said my bride.

What’s wrong? Is she ill? Emily didn’t say anything.

I don’t think it’s anything to be concerned about. Elliot chuckled. She’s been suffering from nausea. In the morning. And she needs late afternoon naps. And her breasts are sore. But I’ll get killed if I breathe another word to you, Bub, so you’d better act real surprised. Okay?

Oh, Elliot, I can’t tell you how happy that would make me, to live to see a great-grandchild. Give Cheray a big kiss from me!

Bub, you don’t know anything, okay? I haven’t even told Mom and Dad.

I understand. You can be sure I’ll be a great actress. If only your grandfather were here!

Hey, is your party really black tie? I can’t wear my cowboy boots?

How he loved to tease her! Her errant oldest grandson had needed to prove himself away from the rest of the family, out in the hinterlands of New Mexico. In truth, it was a glorious part of the country, and she could now, at long last, fully appreciate why he’d made the decision he had. At the time it had nearly killed her very soul.

The light on the phone was flashing again. Elliot, I’ve a call waiting. Will you be staying at Pennyfield or with your parents?

We’d like to stay with you. Cheray loves your house and can’t get enough of you, so it would make her very happy if you’ve got bedrooms left. I understand everyone is staying there.

Of course. Like old times. And tell Jennifer I’ll expect her to stay here too. It’ll be like old times at Rehoboth Beach.

Olivia pushed the button and heard the caressing voice of Winslow, her flamboyant, flashy, and conniving daughter-in-law—who was nonetheless the mother of her beloved grandchildren Larissa, Karine, Scot, and Rick.

Olivia, I wanted to reassure you that Gil and I have canceled our other plans and will definitely be there Sunday. And to say—her voice softened even more, almost to the point of a whisper—how dreadfully sorry we are to hear that you’re ill. What can I do for you between now and your surgery?

How nice to hear from you, my dear. I’ve just finished speaking with Karine. She sounds so happy.

She does, doesn’t she? Have you talked with Rick yet? He’s in London recording, and I haven’t been able to reach him.

My secretary spoke with him yesterday. He’s arriving Thursday evening, and he’ll be staying at Pennyfield.

I see.

Olivia detected resentment in Winslow’s voice.

Well, I’m delighted to know you’ve reached him. I do hope he gets a haircut. His father is so offended by the way he dresses.

It’s all part of the act, Winslow. If you’re going to be a rock star, you’ve got to look the part. At least, that’s what he tells me. Why am I defending her son to her?

His father wishes he’d have more consideration for his political career. After all, Gil is running for the U. S. Senate.

Yes, it seems to me I read that in the paper. The silence on the other end punctuated Olivia’s sarcasm.

Olivia, do you think you could have lunch with me before next Thursday? I’d so love to see you.

No. I’m terribly busy between now and then. Doctor’s appointments and tests. Meetings with my bankers and lawyers. I’m sure you understand.

Yes, but—

I’ll be seeing you Sunday evening. After the surgery, you can come visit me at Pennyfield, and Rosa will make us a wonderful lunch. How’s that?

Fine, I guess. In the meantime, if there’s anything I can do to help you prepare for Sunday, do call me.

Certainly. Cheerio!

That bitch! The nerve of her! To pretend she’s concerned, when she hasn’t called me for lunch in fifteen years!

The phone was quiet, the house was still. It was only nine-thirty, but Olivia felt utterly done in, exhausted. She turned out her lights, watched the logs in the fireplace glow, and thought of her whole life—how glorious, how tragic, how unfinished.

CHAPTER TWO

Bub, it’s Sonia. Sorry to wake you. I’m calling from the studio but I had to talk to you before I called everyone else, and besides, we start filming in thirty minutes.

Olivia looked at her bedside clock. It was seven in the morning. Her butler had strict orders never to put a call through before eight-thirty. But he also had orders to put her grandchildren through immediately, no matter what time of day or night. She struggled to a sitting position and ran a hand through her hair, as if Sonia could see her at the other end of the phone in New York City. My goodness, what is it, child?

I had a brainstorm around midnight. Let’s have a cousins’ party Saturday night—only the young generation—at Pennyfield. Ask Antonio and Rosa to make one of their wonderful Italian buffets. You know, manicotti, veal with green peppers, the way Rosa makes it, the works.

But darling, Elliot and Jen and Cheray woudn’t be able to make it. Jen has rehearsal Saturday.

Bub, that’s ridiculous. If her general manager understands that you want her in Washington, they’ll be no question about her missing a rehearsal.

Well, Jen hates to take advantage of—

She can do it this once. I’ll talk to her. Let me work it out. Everyone’s to wear jeans—even you, Bubby! Sonia giggled, knowing her grandmother possessed nothing remotely resembling jeans.

Oh, then I’m to be included in this party for the younger generation?

Sure, Bub. You’re the youngest one of all.

"I don’t know, dear.