He was also going to leave Dee. He’d let her divorce him. He’d thank her for giving it a try and explain it just hadn’t worked out. Of course that would mean she’d change her will and January would blow ten million bucks. But the year with Dee had brought a lot of things into focus. He had married Dee to get security for January. And where was she? Shacked up with an overaged married stud in a bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel. What security did she have with Tom Colt? She had to know his work would come first . . . and that his wife and kid would also eventually take precedence over her. But she had gone into it knowing she had to finish a poor third. She had taken the gamble. She didn’t want life to be gift-wrapped or dropped into her lap. And neither did he. He couldn’t face another winter in Palm Beach . . . a summer at Marbella . . . the small talk at dinner parties . . . the bland empty serenity of Dee . . . No wonder she had no lines in her face—she felt nothing. She lived in a world of “small talk,” backgammon, shopping . . . A life of trivia. She probably wouldn’t even go into any real scene over their split-up. Oh, it might upset some of her plans for Marbella—especially the seating arrangements at her dinner parties—but she wouldn’t feel any great loss. And January wouldn’t really lose anything in not becoming an heiress. As soon as they got back he’d take out a healthy life insurance policy, and no matter what happened, he’d never borrow on it. He’d get his old suite back at the Plaza . . . with two bedrooms. He’d ask her to move back. No, he’d tell her the room was there—would always be there—if she wanted it.
Several times he had almost placed a call to her at the Beverly Hills Hotel. But he always caught himself in time. He saw to it that his acquisition of the picture got a big story in Variety. He had cut it out and mailed it to her with no comment.
They planned to leave for New York on Friday. Two days before, he made a quick trip to Switzerland and deposited half a million in cash in a numbered bank account. Then he cabled the Plaza to reserve his old suite for Saturday, May 28. He would wait until they got to the Pierre . . . then break it to Dee, and check into the Plaza.
On Thursday afternoon, Dee ran around the Rue Antibes buying perfume and little gifts for her friends. Mike ran into a producer he had never liked. He invited Mike to his suite for a game of gin. Mike hesitated. The producer was notoriously lucky. Then he nodded. Why not! This would be a final test of his luck.
He left the suite late that afternoon, thirty thousand dollars richer, and went to Cartier’s and bought Dee a thin platinum cigarette case. He managed to get a rush job done on the engraving. The following day as they drove to the airport, he tossed it in her lap. The inscription said TO DEE. THE LADY WHO BROUGHT ME BACK MY LUCK. IN GRATITUDE. MIKE. She leaned over and kissed his cheek. Maybe he should tell her now and get it over with . . . But then he thought better of it. It’d be murder to be trapped in a plane for six hours with nothing to do but rehash a “nothing” marriage. Besides, it wasn’t her fault. She had bought herself a legal escort. And now it was time for her to find another. This one was returning to the human race.
They left Cannes and boarded their plane at Nice. He sat across the aisle from Dee. He had brought caviar and champagne aboard. Paid for it himself. He had hesitated at first, because this was a ritual he reserved for January. But then, this was for January. He was on his way back to her and freedom.
They opened the champagne and caviar after they were airborne. The new attendant served them. He was a young French boy who had driven for them while they were in Cannes. His dream was to see America. Mike had offered him a ride, and Dee had told him there was always room for a gardener or driver at the Winter Palace. His name was Jean Paul Vallon, and he had lived all of his nineteen years in Cannes. He had never even been to Paris. His mother, and aunt, three cousins, and his sister and brother-in-law had come to see him off. None of them had ever been in a plane before—and the opulence of Dee’s private jet overwhelmed them.
Dee held up her glass and smiled at Mike. “To Cannes . . . and your friends.”
He held up his glass. “To Marbella . . . and your life and friends.”
She smiled and sipped her drink. Mike put his glass to his lips . . . but couldn’t bring himself to drink it. Suddenly it seemed wrong to drink Dom Perignon with anyone but January. He held the glass and stared out the window. It wasn’t going to be easy breaking this to Dee. After all, she hadn’t done anything . . . except be herself. Only it just wasn’t for him.
Dee opened the cigarette case and took out a cigarette. She stared out the window at the clouds below. The inscription on the case was beautiful. Mike was so kind . . . so sweet . . . he really cared about her. But she just couldn’t go on like this. She had no intention of lying awake night after night trying to plan excuses to be with Karla. No, after she changed the will, she would have to tell him. And then announce that she intended to lead her own life—and that he could do the same—as long as he got into no scandal and was always available when she needed him. If he accepted those terms, then January’s inheritance would be safe.
She looked over at his strong profile. She would be castrating him. Yet there was no other way. She stared at the cigarette case. It was the first expensive gift she had ever received from any man. She fingered it gently. He had spent a lot of money on it. Probably all of his gambling winnings. Her eyes blurred. Oh God, why was there always someone who had to get hurt? She took a deep drag of her cigarette. Then she jabbed it out in the small ashtray. She had given him a good year . . . done the best she could for his daughter . . . and the daughter would wind up being a very rich woman if Mike played along. But her conscience still bothered her. She looked at the case again. A man had to be in love to write an inscription like that: THE LADY WHO BROUGHT ME BACK MY LUCK. But there was no reason for her to have a guilt complex like this. If a man were in her spot, would he be as generous toward the woman? Of course not! And he’d feel no guilt either. Karla had left London for New York three days ago . . . they had talked on the phone for close to an hour. Zinaida had taken to Miss Roberts and Karla was eager to return to New York and see Dee.
Karla’s voice had been low. “Dee . . . please hurry back.”
Just thinking about it now made her feel weak with happiness. She closed her eyes and leaned back, trying to cement the vision of Karla in her mind. Karla belonged to her now. Really belonged to her!
The plane lurched, but Dee kept her eyes closed. Mike’s drink had spilled, and Jean Paul came rushing over to mop it up. Mike wiped off the attaché case he was holding. The contract for the picture was inside. Along with one hundred and fifty thousand American dollars in cash. Enough to get him started in an office and get the publicity rolling.
Jean Paul refilled Mike’s glass even though he motioned that he didn’t want any. He took the bottle from the boy and refilled Dee’s glass. “Here’s some for you too, Jean Paul. This is a big occasion . . . your first trip to America. And from now on, anytime anything special happens in your life . . . buy yourself a bottle and make this a ritual. A ritual of luck.”
The boy watched carefully as Mike filled his glass. The plane lurched again, and some of the wine spilled on to his new dark trousers. Mike laughed. “That means good luck, Jean Paul.” The plane lurched again and dropped fifty feet . . . then it seemed to rock. The boy’s eyes went glassy with fright. Mike smiled. “Strap yourself in, kid. Looks like we’re probably hitting some weather.”
Mike leaned back and closed his eyes. The plane jolted . . . then leveled out. He was thinking about January when he heard an uneven sound in the jet’s engine—like the revving of a motorcycle. He sat up and listened carefully. Dee looked at him questioningly. He unstrapped his seatbelt and went inside the cabin. Both pilots were working furiously at the controls. Smoke was pouring out of one of the jet’s motors. The plane began to weave crazily.
“Release the motor. Drop it,” Mike said hoarsely.
“I can’t,” the pilot shouted. “It’s jammed. Wire Mayday,” he told his partner.
“Go back and sit down, Mr. Wayne. Looks like we’ll have to go for a crash landing.”
Mike returned to his seat. Dee was staring at him apprehensively. The young French boy had taken out a rosary. His face was ashen. He looked at Mike, his eyes pleading for some reassurance.
Mike managed a smile. “Everything’s fine . . . we’ve sprung a little engine trouble. We’re gonna put down and get it fixed. Just relax.”
Then the pilot’s voice came through. “Mr. and Mrs. Wayne, we’re going for a crash landing. Will you please unstrap your seat belts. Take off your shoes and get into a kneeling position on the floor. If you are wearing glasses, take them off, and put your head in your hands.”
Jean Paul began to sob. “I will never see America. We are all going to die . . .”
Dee was silent. Her face was strained and white. Oh God! This was something you read about that happened to other people. It couldn’t be happening to her . . . not now . . . not when she really had something to live for . . . Oh, please not now!
Mike knelt down and held the attaché case firmly. Then he leaned over and picked up the champagne bottle that was on the floor. He put it to his mouth and took a long swallow. It was an occasion now . . . one hell of an occasion. And just before the plane exploded in mid-air, he thought of January. He would never have the chance to apologize and tell her how much he loved her. And when the explosion came, the last thing that occurred to him was the numbered bank account in Switzerland and that this certainly was one hell of a place for his luck to run out. . . .
Twenty-seven
JANUARY CLOSED HER EYES as the 747 began its descent to Kennedy Airport. She couldn’t face the sight of New York knowing Mike wouldn’t be at the airport to meet her. Knowing he’d never be at any airport to meet her.
Less than an hour after his plane had exploded into the Atlantic the news had flashed on television in New York, cutting into all regular programming. Fortunately, George Milford reached January at the Beverly Hills Hotel before she heard it on the air.
It had all seemed completely unreal. When she hung up, the sunlight was still streaming into the room. Tom was still banging away on the typewriter in the next room. Mike was dead . . . and the world was still going on.
She had listened quietly while George Milford told her the details. She was silent when David offered condolences on the extension phone. Should they come and get her? Should they make arrangements for the services? Should they? . . . Somewhere in the middle of one of the “Should they’s” she had hung up. She had sat quietly at first, wondering why the birds were still singing . . . wondering why she was still breathing.
She didn’t remember when she began to scream. She just knew she was screaming and couldn’t stop . . . and Tom was holding her in his arms and pleading for an explanation. And then suddenly the phones were ringing in every room and Tom finally told the operator to stop all calls, and she could tell by his face that he knew . . . and all the while the goddamn sun kept shining and the birds called out to each other and the operator paged people at the pool.
She remembered a kind man named Dr. Cutler who arrived and gave her a shot. A different kind of shot from Dr. Alpert’s. This was a soft easy shot . . . it made her stop screaming. It made everything sound very quiet . . . even the sunlight grew dim . . . and she felt as if she were floating and the birds sounded as if they were far away. And then she slept.
When she awoke, she thought perhaps it had all been a dream, a crazy nightmare. But Tom wasn’t at the typewriter. He was sitting beside the bed, and when she asked him if it had been a dream he turned away.
He had held her close all night. She didn’t cry. She was afraid to cry because she might never stop. . . .
Keeping it locked in was almost like refusing to admit that it had really happened.
Tom had finally turned off all the phones. Linda had gotten through; she had offered to come out and bring January back. Both George and David Milford had made the same offer. But January didn’t want anyone to come out for her. Tom took charge and booked her on TWA’s noon flight the following day. He wired David and George her flight number and arrival time. He drove her to the airport and got permission to take her on the plane before the other passengers boarded. She sat in the front seat of the huge empty plane and suddenly panicked.
“Come back with me, Tom. I can’t face it alone.”
“You won’t be facing it alone,” he said quietly. “I’m always with you. Just remember that—hold that thought all the time. And George and David Milford will be waiting at the airport.”
“Oh, Tom, I don’t want it this way.”
He managed a smile. “It’s not what we want . . . but what has to be. Let’s face it, honey . . . I am a married man. David and his father actually believe you’re here doing a story on me. Not that I care what they think, but it’s you I’m worrying about. After all, there will be reporters waiting at Kennedy.”
“Reporters?” She looked dazed.
“Well . . . your father was a hell of a colorful guy in his time, and Dee Milford Granger was one of the richest women in the world. It is news, and the public is morbid—”
“Tom.” She reached out and gripped his hands. “Please come with me.”
“I want to, baby. But there’s nothing I could do to help. I’d have to hide out in a hotel while you made the arrangements. Because that’s all the press would need—you coming to make funeral arrangements with a married lover in tow. Besides, I’m way behind with my work. The studio is on my neck. Seems like I’ve been too much of a lover and not enough of a writer.”
She clung to him and he assured her he’d be there . . . waiting. “You get things settled . . . and call me . . . any time . . . all the time . . . whenever you need me . . . I’ll be here.”
The plane was circling Kennedy waiting for ground clearance. She opened her bag and took out the Variety clipping and reread it again. And once again she asked herself—Why had he sent it without a note? Was it because he was still angry? But then, he wouldn’t have sent it at all. It was his way of saying everything was okay. It had to mean that! Oh God . . . it had to.
The plane touched the runway. It was a smooth landing. Everyone released their seat belts . . . the Muzak came on . . . people stood up even though the stewardess kept pleading for everyone to remain seated until the plane stopped taxiing. People reached for hand luggage . . . a baby cried in the back section . . . the ramp stairway was wheeled to the plane . . . the stewardesses were standing at the open door now . . . smiling . . . saying goodbye to everyone with sincere-looking smiles . . . thanking everyone for flying TWA . . . She was walking to the door like all the other passengers. It was crazy how the world could come to an end and you still functioned and did all of the ordinary things. Like sitting through a four-and-a-half-hour flight . . . even picking at some food . . . and now walking down the ramp like everyone else. She saw the photographers, but it never occurred to her that they were waiting for her until the lights were flashing in her face. They were crowding in on her, and then David and his father broke through and led her into a private room at the airport while a chauffeur took her baggage stubs.
Then there was the ride back to New York, the same ride she had taken with Mike. The same road, the same leftovers from the World’s Fair. They were still there . . . but Mike was gone.
“. . . and that’s why we think it’s best . . .” George Milford was saying.
“Best. Best what?” She looked at the two men.
David’s voice was gentle. “Best for you to stay at the Pierre. It will take some time for the estate to be probated. Eventually the Winter Palace, the place in Marbella, and the apartment at the Pierre will be sold, and the money will go into the foundation. But until then you are welcome to live anywhere. And you’ll be comfortable at the Pierre.”
“No . . . I have my own place.”
“But you’ll have your privacy guaranteed at the Pierre.”
“Privacy?”
“The newspapers will blow this up for days, I’m afraid,” George Milford explained. “You see, when the news broke, the press called me to ask about Dee’s estate. And I’m afraid that I inadvertently let it slip that you would come into ten million.”
“Ten million?” She looked at them both. “Dee left me ten million dollars? Why? I hardly knew her.”
George Milford smiled. “She loved your father very much. I’m sure she did it to please him. She told me how much he loved you . . . and that’s why you should live at the Pierre. After all, your father wanted it that way.”
“How do you know what he wanted?” she asked. “You didn’t really know him.”
“January, I knew him . . . quite well, toward the end,” David said quietly. “We talked a lot at Palm Beach that Easter weekend when you didn’t come. He told me he had hoped we would eventually get married . . . I told him how I felt about you and he said to wait, not to push it. Those were his words. He never wanted to push you into anything. He hated the idea of your living in that tacky apartment. But he said he would never let you know, just as he never told you how disappointed he was when you left the Pierre.”