He looked around at his quiet, manicured garden and wondered, not for the first time, if his Japanese grounds-man had a drawn plan of the terrain. His prime Beverly Hills acre of color almost blinded him with its brilliance. Nests of sweet peas, beds of begonias and cyclamen, huge healthy clumps of daisies, and intensely fragrant bougainvillea and gardenias all bloomed in pampered profusion. When he died he hoped some kind soul would drape his casket with daisies; they were his favorite flowers. The morbid image brought him up short, and he quickly banished it from his thoughts. Death was years ahead of him; he wouldn’t even consider it. Why, he hadn’t even reached the halfway mark yet! His career came first; then, when he was ready to retire he would do something about the things he wanted to do and the places he wanted to see.
Reuben turned and started toward his horseshoe-shaped rose garden, shears and gloves in hand. He’d come out to the garden for a reason, not to stand and gawk. Almost completely surrounded by the five-foot rosebushes, he began to cut away dead stems and dried leaves. They were hardy, these roses, and he’d taken over their care despite Osawa’s protests. Of course, he wasn’t proficient by any means, but the need to tend something, to watch it grow and thrive through sheer persistence, was important to him.
Intent on his occupation, he examined each new bud and marveled over every full bloom still shining with early morning dewdrops. The deep emerald leaves looked as though they were sprinkled with diamonds, and the earthy fragrance of the new day filled his lungs.
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the maid bringing out the Examiner and a pot of coffee and placing it on the terrace table a short distance from where he stood. Soon she’d return with a frosty pitcher of orange juice and a crystal glass. The benefits of wealth: a maid, breakfast on the terrace, and a newspaper just waiting for him to pick up. Reuben sighed.
There were days when he liked his solitary coffee and juice, but today wasn’t one of them. Today he felt his aloneness acutely, like a swift, unexpected pain. The children were busy with their lives, and his wife was off God knew where, while he was swallowed up in a huge mansion with four servants.
He’d spent the entire Fourth of July weekend alone, puttering about even though Jane Perkins had asked him weeks earlier to attend her annual barbecue and Max had called and suggested he stop by the club if he wasn’t doing anything. But he couldn’t face the warmth of Jane’s homey get-together, even though she was a trusted friend and he loved her dearly, and Max’s invitation had only made him burrow deeper into his solitude.
Thinking over the next few business days at the studio, he realized that with the exception of one meeting, things were so under control he didn’t even have to show up. If he wanted to, he could take off for days at a time at this point and not worry about what was going on. But he did worry. After all, someone might come out of the blue and snap at his heels the way he’d snapped at Sol Rosen’s heels some twenty-odd years ago. And he hadn’t stopped snapping, either; he’d taken a good-size bite and then gobbled up the whole shooting match. Well, almost the whole shooting match. Forty-nine percent of Fairmont stock was his free and clear—stock ol’ Sol had cannily gifted in trust to his grandsons in a clever twist on an agreement he and Reuben had made together. The same stock that Bebe had later turned over to him the night he’d been awarded an Oscar for his accomplishments in the film industry—to help put their troubled marriage back on an even keel, she’d said at the time. But that had not happened. If anything, he and Bebe were further apart now than they’d ever been. It wasn’t even a marriage of convenience anymore. It was just a mutual, miserable existence.
Reuben stared down at the garden flagstones, littered now with dead twigs bearing sharp, treacherous thorns. After meticulously piling them to the side, he moved on to the salmon-colored roses and continued to snip. If only he could cut an armful of the lush, fragrant blooms and present them to someone, someone special who would know that he and he alone was responsible for their beauty. But there was no one he cared to share his roses with, no one who meant enough to him. His heart felt heavy.
How in the name of God had he become such an emotional cripple? Why couldn’t he feel love? Why had it been ruthlessly snatched from his grasp? Would he ever again feel that pulse-quickening, heart-thumping magical excitement that made him want to rip open his heart to bare his love? Jesus, where had it all gone?
His mind raced as he kept snipping away, his thoughts circling around another topic of concern. For the last few days he had been experiencing a second gut-churning emotion, one that tied his stomach in knots and made him want to look over his shoulder like an escaping criminal, as if hounds were at his heels. Fear. Fear that something was going to happen to upset his world. It had started the night of Daniel’s phone call, this intangible feeling that was setting his hands to tremble and his heart to pound.
Reuben pulled off the gardening gloves and tossed them and the clippers onto the mound of cuttings. Turning his back on the garden, he walked to the white glass-topped table on the patio. Marcy had poured his juice but not his coffee. He gulped the freshly squeezed juice, savoring the pulpy thickness, then poured himself a cup of the dark and spicy coffee—made just the way he liked it. It had barely hit bottom when he looked down at the paper nestled beside the cup. His gut began to churn faster. Maybe something was in the paper…. Either it was that or…Daniel.
There was nothing new in the paper, just a rehash of the previous day’s news. As he refolded the paper, a picture of Roosevelt standing at Hyde Park stared back at him. The article reported the president’s Fourth of July speech, a wealth of platitudes about the greatness of America, about dying for one’s country in order to preserve the human freedom established by the Founding Fathers 165 years ago today. Reuben pushed the paper from him. Daniel knew something, had heard something, was privy to some information…and his call was to…see if he had heard it, too!
“Marcy!” he roared. When the startled maid appeared at the French doors, he demanded a phone. He didn’t give a shit what time it was back East.
The phone rang twenty-five times at Daniel’s Georgetown house before Reuben hung up. The phone at the house on Fire Island was picked up on the seventh ring. In a sleepy voice Nellie told Reuben her father was back in Washington. Reuben hung up again and then tried Daniel’s answering service. This time a receptionist told him that Mr. Bishop was out of town but someone would be in the office by nine if it was an emergency. At that Reuben lost his patience.
“I’m Reuben Tarz, miss. Mr. Bishop always leaves word where I can reach him, and, yes, this is an emergency.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” the operator answered contritely, “Mr. Bishop left no messages other than what I’ve just told you. All I can suggest is that you call the office at nine o’clock.”
“Out of town, my ass!” Reuben seethed at the sound of the dial tone. Hell, he’d talked to Daniel a little over twenty-four hours ago, and nothing had been said about going out of town. Not that he told Reuben each time he made a business trip, but he’d always left a number where he could be reached, or his secretary would track him down if Reuben needed him, and he’d be on the phone within the hour.
Reuben looked at his watch. Five minutes to six—five minutes to nine in Washington. Five minutes to wait.
Promptly at six Reuben placed a call to Daniel’s private office number. His nasal-voiced secretary answered on the second ring. “Daniel Bishop’s office, how may I help you?”
“Reuben Tarz here, Irene. I need to get in touch with Daniel.”
Irene’s voice became attentive and expectant. Besides knowing about him through her love of the movies, Irene was well aware that Reuben Tarz was Mr. Bishop’s best friend, and in all the years she’d worked for Mr. Bishop he had always left a number where Reuben Tarz could reach him. This was the first time that she would have to tell him Mr. Bishop simply couldn’t be reached. “I’m sorry, Mr. Tarz, but Mr. Bishop left the office