"Don't make me do this," she whispered. The words had a wavery sound, as if her throat were full of water. "Please. Just give me the picture."
"I told you to hurry." He wasn't even looking at her face, just staring at the place between her legs.
The bad taste in her mouth got worse as she slowly worked her shorts down over her tummy and thighs and then let them fall. They circled her ankles in a crooked figure eight. She was cold with shame as she stood in front of him in her blue cotton underpants with tiny yellow roses all over them.
"Give it to me now, " she begged.
"Pull down your panties first."
She tried not to think about it. She tried just to take her panties down so she could have the picture of her mother, but her hands wouldn't move. She stood in front of him with tears running down her cheeks and her shorts snagged around her chubby ankles and she knew she couldn't let him see her there.
"I can't," she whispered.
"Do it!" His small eyes darkened with fury.
Sobbing, she shook her head.
With an ugly twist to his mouth, he ripped the precious photograph in half, then in half again before letting the pieces float to the ground. He ground them beneath the sole of his sneaker and ran toward the house.
Tripping on her shorts, she stumbled blindly toward the ruined photograph. As she fell to her knees, she saw a set of widely spaced eyes tilted up at the ends just like her own. She gave a little shuddering gasp and told herself it would be all right. She would smooth everything out and tape it all back together again.
Her hands shook as she arranged the four crumpled pieces in their proper order, the top corners first and then the bottom ones. Only after the photograph was reassembled did she see Reed's final act of malice. A thick, black mustache had been inked in just above her mother's soft upper lip.
That had been twenty-three years ago, but Phoebe could still feel an ache in her chest as she stood at the window staring out over the grounds. All the material luxuries of her childhood had never been able to compensate for growing up under the shadow of Reed's cruel bullying and her father's scorn.
Something brushed against her leg, and she looked down to see Pooh gazing up at her with adoring eyes. She knelt to pick her up, then gathered her close and carried her over to the sofa, where she sat and stroked her soft white coat. The grandfather clock ticked in the corner. When she was eighteen, that clock had stood in her father's study. She buried her pink-lacquered fingernails in Pooh's topknot and remembered that awful August night when her world had come to an end.
Her stepmother Lara had taken two-month-old Molly to visit her mother in Cleveland. Phoebe, eighteen at the time, was home packing for her freshman year at Mount Holyoke. Normally she wouldn't have been invited to the Northwest Illinois State football team party, but Bert was hosting it at the house so she had been included. At that time Bert hadn't yet bought the Stars' franchise, and Northwest football had been his obsession. Reed played on the team, and Bert's generous contributions to the athletic fund had made him a highly influential alumnus.
She had spent the day both anticipating and dreading that night's party. Although much of her baby fat had melted away, she was still self-conscious about her figure and wore baggy, shapeless clothing to conceal her full breasts. Her experiences with Reed and her father had left her leery of men, but at the same time, she couldn't help but daydream that one of the popular jocks would notice her.
She had spent the early hours of the party standing on the fringes trying to look inconspicuous. When Craig Jenkins, who was Reed's best friend, had walked over to ask her to dance, she had barely been able to nod. Dark-haired and handsome, Craig was Northeast's star player and not even in her wildest dreams had she imagined that he would notice her, much less put his arm around her shoulders after the music ended. She had begun to relax. They danced again. She flirted a little bit, laughed at his jokes.
And then it had all turned sour. He'd had too much to drink and tried to feel her breasts. Even when she'd told him to stop, he hadn't listened. He'd grown more aggressive, and she'd run outside in the middle of a thunderstorm to hide in the small metal shed near the pool.
That was where Craig had found her and where, in the thick, hot blackness, he had raped her.
Afterward, she'd made the mistake so many rape victims make. Dazed and bleeding, she had dragged herself to the bathroom, where she'd thrown up and then scrubbed away the signs of his violation in a tub of scalding-hot water.
An hour later, sobbing and barely coherent, she'd cornered Bert in his study, where he'd gone to fetch one of his Cuban cigars. She still remembered his disbelief as he'd run his fingers through his steel gray crew cut and studied her. She stood before him in the baggy gray sweat suit she'd climbed into when she got out of the tub, and she had never felt more vulnerable.
"You want me to believe a boy like Craig Jenkins was so hard up for a woman that he had to rape you?"
"It's true," she whispered, barely able to squeeze the words through her constricted throat.
Cigar smoke had coiled like a soiled ribbon around his head. He drew his shaggy salt-and-pepper eyebrows together. "This is another one of your pathetic attempts to get my sympathy, isn't it? Do you really believe I'm going to ruin mat boy's football career just because you want some attention."
"It's not like that! He raped me!"
Bert had made a sound of disgust and stuck his head out the door to send someone after Craig, who had arrived minutes later accompanied by Reed. Phoebe had begged her father to send Reed away, but he hadn't done it, and her cousin stood at the side of the room sipping from a bottle of beer and listening as she haltingly repeated her story.
Craig had hotly denied Phoebe's accusations, speaking so convincingly that she would have believed him herself if she hadn't known differently. Even without looking at her father, she realized that she had lost, and when he ordered her not ever to repeat the story again, some part of her had died.
She'd run away the next day, trying to flee from what had become her shame. Her college checking account contained enough money for her to get to Paris, the place where she'd met Arturo Flores, and her life had been changed forever.
Her father's flunkies had visited her several times during her years with Arturo to deliver Bert's threats and order her home. She had been disinherited when the first of the nude portraits had gone on display.
She rested her head against the back of the couch and drew Pooh closer. Bert had finally bent her to his will. If she didn't do as he had dictated, she wouldn't receive the one hundred thousand dollars, money that would let her open a small art gallery of her own.
You're my only failure, Phoebe. My only goddamn failure.
Right then, she set her jaw in a stubborn line. Her father, his one hundred thousand dollars, and the Chicago Stars could go to hell. Just because Bert had set up the game didn't mean she had to play. She'd find another way to raise the money to open her gallery. She decided to take Viktor up on his offer to spend some time at his vacation cottage near Montauk. There, next to the ocean, she would finally put the ghosts of her past to rest.
Chapter 3
« ^ »
"There's no other way to look at it, Ice," Tully Archer said, speaking to Dan Calebow out of the side of his mouth as if they were Allied spies meeting in the Grunewald to exchange military secrets. "Whether you like it or not, the blond chicky's in the driver's seat."
"Bert must have had his brains in his ass." Dan scowled at the waiter, who was approaching with another tray of champagne, and the man quickly backed off. Dan hated champagne. Not just the sissy taste, but the way those silly glasses felt in his big battle-scarred hands. Even more than the champagne, he hated the idea of that blond bimbo with the drop-dead body owning his football team.
The two coaches were standing in the spacious observation deck of the Sears Tower, which had been closed to the public for that evening's United Negro College Fund benefit. The floor-to-ce
iling sweep of windows reflected banks of flowers grouped around trellis arches, while a woodwind quintet from the Chicago Symphony played Debussy. Members of all the area sports teams were mingling with local media figures, politicians, and several movie stars who were in town. Dan hated any occasion that required a tuxedo, but when it was for a good cause, he forced himself to go along with it.
Beginning with his years as the starting quarterback for the University of Alabama's Crimson Tide, Calebow's exploits both on and off the field had become the stuff of legends. As a pro, he had been a bloodthirsty, hell-raising, in-your-face barbarian. He was a working man's quarterback, not a glamour boy, and even the meanest defensive lineman failed to intimidate him, because in any confrontation Dan Calebow assumed he was either stronger than the other guy or smarter. Either way, he planned to come out the winner.
Off the field he was just as aggressive. At various times he had gotten himself arrested for disturbing the peace, destruction of personal property, and, in the early days of his career, possession of a controlled substance.
Age and maturity had made him wiser about some things but not about others, and he found himself studying the newest congresswoman from Illinois as she stood in a cluster of formally dressed people behind Tully. She wore one of those black evening gowns that looked plain but probably cost more than a new set of Pings. Her light brown hair was pulled to the nape of her neck with a flat velvet bow. She was beautiful and sophisticated. She was also attracting a considerable amount of attention, and he didn't fail to note that he was one of the few people at the gathering she hadn't sought out. Instead, a flashy brunette in a tight silver dress came up to him. Turning her back to Tully, she regarded Dan through eyelashes so thick with mascara he was surprised she could still bat them.
"You look lonely over here, Coach." She licked her lips. "I saw you play against the Cowboys right before you retired. You were a wild man that day."
"I'm just about a wild man every day, honey."
"That's what I hear." He felt her hand sliding into the pocket of his jacket and knew she was leaving her phone number. He tried to remember if he'd unloaded his pockets from the last time he'd worn this tux. With a moist smile that promised him everything, she moved away.
Tully was so accustomed to having his conversations with Dan broken into by predatory females that he went on as if there had been no interruption. "The whole thing galls me. How could Bert have let something like this happen?"
What Phoebe Somerville was doing to his football team outraged Dan so much he didn't want to think about it when there was nothing around for him to hit. He distracted himself by looking for the beautiful congress-woman and spotted her speaking with one of Chicago's aldermen. Her aristocratic features were composed, her gestures constrained and elegant. She was a class act from head to toe, not the sort of woman he could imagine with flour on her nose or a baby in her arms. He turned away. At this point in his life, a flour-dusted, cookie-bakin', baby-makin' woman was exactly what he was looking for.
After more years of raising hell than he wanted to count and a marriage that had been a big mistake, Dan Calebow was in a serious settlin'-down mood. At the age of thirty-seven, he yearned for kids, a whole houseful of them, and a woman who was more interested in changing diapers than taking over Chrysler.
He was on the brink of turning over a new leaf. No more career women, no more glamour pusses, no more sex bombs. He had his eyes out for a down-home woman, the kind who'd enjoy having a toddler mess up her hair, a woman whose idea of high fashion was a pair of blue jeans and one of his old sweatshirts, an ordinary kind of woman who didn't turn heads and make men crazy. And once he'd committed himself, his roaming days would be over. He hadn't cheated on his first wife, and he wasn't going to cheat on his last one.
Next to him, Tully Archer was still gnawing over the subject of Phoebe Somerville. "You know I don't like to speak ill of anybody, especially the fairer sex, but that blond chicky called me 'sugarplum.' Damn, Ice. That's just not the sort of person should be owning a football team."
"You got that right."
Tully's Santa Claus face puckered like a baby's. "She's got a poodle, Dan. Now both of us know the Bears' coaches are always fighting with Mike McCaskey, but damn, at least they're not working for an owner who carries around a French poodle. I tell you, I've been avoiding all of them since that funeral. I'll bet they're bustin' a gut laughing at us."
Once Tully got wound up. it was hard to stop him, and he moved on to the next subject. Dan noted that the congresswoman was gradually making her way to the elevator banks, a cadre of aids surrounding her as she departed. He glanced at his watch.
"This was supposed to be the transitional year for us, Ice," Tully said. "Bert fired Brewster last November and hired you as head coach. We got lucky on Plan B, did better than we expected in the draft, and even won a couple of games at the end of the season. But who could have figured Carl Pogue would quit and we'd end up having Ronald in charge of operations?"
A muscle ticked in the corner of Dan's jaw.
Tully shook his head. "Phoebe Somerville and Ronald McDermitt, the Stars' new owner and acting general manager. I tell you, Ice, even Vince Lombardi's laughing at us, and just think how long he's been dead."
Silence fell between them as both men's thoughts took equally dismal paths. In the six weeks that had passed since Bert's funeral, Phoebe had disappeared, bringing team business to a standstill because no one else was authorized to sign contracts. When she couldn't be located, Carl Pogue, the Stars' general manager, had quit in frustration and subsequently taken a job in the Commissioner's Office. Now, Ronald McDermitt, the man who had been Carl Pogue's assistant, was the Stars' acting general manager, completing the chronicle of disaster.
The terms of Bert's will had been leaked to the media, leaving all of them stunned. Like everyone else, Dan had assumed Bert would pass the Stars on to Reed immediately, not at the end of the season. Although Reed Chandler had a good reputation in the community, Dan had always found him a bit slippery, and he hadn't looked forward to working for him. Now, however, he would have given just about anything to see Reed sitting in Bert's old office.
"Howie told me you've been trying to get in touch with Ray Hardesty. You're not feeling guilty about finally letting me cut him, are you, Dan?"
Dan shook his head, even though the cut still bothered him. "We had to do it."
"Damn right. He was missing more practices than he was making, and there was no way he was going to pass a drug test."
"I know that." Lyle Alzado's death from steroid abuse hadn't taught guys like Ray Hardesty a damn thing. Dan knew Tully had been right to insist that Ray be cut from the team, and he should have done it when Ray had been picked up for his second DUI arrest of the year. Instead, he'd dragged his heels, giving the Stars' veteran defensive end more last chances than he would have given anybody else. Hardesty had been a great player until his drinking and drugging had gotten out of control, and Dan had wanted to exhaust all of his options. He'd done his best to get Ray into rehab. He'd talked to him until he was blue in the face about showing up on time for practice and at least pretending to follow the rules, but Ray hadn't been listening to anybody except his street corner pharmacist.
Tully tugged at his collar. "Did you know that Ronald took me aside a couple of days after Carl quit and told me to put more pressure on you to cut Hardesty?"
Dan hated talking about the Stars' acting general manager nearly as much as he hated talking about the new owner. "Why didn't Ronald talk to me in person?"
"He's scared to death of you. Ever since you stuffed him in that locker."
"He made me mad."
"Ronald was never anything more than Carl's gofer." Tully shook his head. "Everybody knows he only got the job because Bert owed his daddy a favor. I know Bert would never have let his daughter get her hands on the Stars if he knew Carl was going to quit. Ronald's a candy ass, Ice. Did I tell you about the time Bobby Tom was foolin'
around after practice last season when Ronald came out to the field? You know how Bobby Tom is, just havin' a little fun, says, 'Hey, Ronnie, we're looking for a new wide-out.' And he lobs the ball at him real soft, couldn't have been more than five yards. Anyway, Ronald puts up his arm to catch it and jams his finger. He starts shaking his hand like somebody killed him. Bobby Tom like to bust a gut. How can you respect a general manager can't even catch a lob like that?"
Tully's monologue was interrupted by one of the subjects under discussion, last year's starting wide receiver for the Stars, Bobby Tom Denton. Bobby Tom liked to dress well, and his impeccably tailored black tuxedo was accompanied by a ruffled white dress shirt, glittering silver bow tie, lizardskin boots, and a big black Stetson.
As far as anybody knew, the only time Bobby Tom took off his Stetson was when he put on his helmet. One of his many girlfriends had told the National Enquirer he even wore it when he made love. Her word was suspect, however, since she'd also told the Enquirer that Bobby Tom was the illegitimate son of Roy Orbison, a statement that had mightily upset Bobby Tom's mother, despite the fact that anybody who'd ever heard Bobby Tom sing could have figured out it was a lie.
Bobby Tom nodded his Stetson at Tully and Dan. "Coach. Coach."
Dan nodded back. "Bobby Tom."
The wide receiver turned to Tully. "Hey, Coach, what d'ya think? That redhead over there told me all her girlfriends think I'm the best-looking wide-out in the league. What about you? Do you think my profile's better than Tom Waddle's?"
Tully contemplated the wide receiver's profile while he gave the question serious consideration. "I don't know, Bobby Tom. Waddle's nose is straighter than yours."
Bobby Tom tended to get belligerent when anyone challenged his good looks, and tonight was no exception. "Is that so? For your information she said I look like that movie star—what's his name? Christian Slater." Bobby Tom frowned. "Either of you know who Christian Slater is?"