“If our positions were reversed,” she continued, trying to speak in a calm, rational voice, “I would feel just as you do—”
“When did you find this out?” he interrupted tightly.
“The night before I called you to arrange this meeting.”
“Assuming you’re telling me the truth—that we’re still married—just exactly what do you want from me?”
“A divorce. A nice, quiet, uncomplicated, immediate divorce.”
“No alimony?” he jeered, watching the angry flush steal up her cheeks. “No property settlement, nothing like that?”
“No!”
“Good, because you sure as hell aren’t going to get any!”
Angry at his deliberate and rude reminder that his wealth was now far greater than hers, Meredith looked at him with well-bred disdain. “Money was all you ever thought about, all that mattered to you. I never wanted to marry you, and I don’t want your money! I’d rather starve than have anyone know we were ever married!”
The maître d’ chose that untimely moment to appear at their table to inquire if their meal had been satisfactory or if they wanted anything else.
“Yes,” Matt said bluntly. “I’ll have a double shot of scotch on the rocks, and my wife,” he emphasized, taking petty, malicious satisfaction out of doing exactly what she’d just said she never wanted to do, “will have another martini.”
Meredith, who never, ever had engaged in a public scene, glowered at her old friend and said, “I’ll give you a thousand dollars to poison his drink!”
Bowing slightly, John smiled and said with grave courtesy, “Certainly, Mrs. Farrell,” then he turned to a furious Matt, and added drolly, “Arsenic or do you prefer something more exotic, Mr. Farrell?”
“Don’t you dare ever to call me by that name again!” Meredith warned John. “It is not my name.”
The humor and affection vanished from John’s face, and he bowed again. “My sincerest apologies for having taken undue liberties, Miss Bancroft. Your drink will be delivered with my compliments.”
Meredith felt like a complete witch for taking her anger out on him. Morosely, she glanced at John’s stiff, retreating back and then at Matt. She waited a moment longer for their tempers to cool, then she drew a long, calming breath. “Matt, it’s counterproductive for us to sling insults at one another. can’t we please try to treat each other at least with courtesy? If we could, it would make it much easier for us to deal with all this.”
She was right, he knew, and after a moment’s hesitation he said shortly, “I suppose we can try. How do you think things ought to be handled?”
“Quietly!” she said, smiling at him in relief. “And quickly. The need for secrecy and haste is far greater than you probably realize.”
Matt nodded, his thoughts finally becoming more organized. “Your fiancé,” he assumed. “According to the papers, you want to marry him in February.”
“Well, yes, there is that,” she agreed. “Parker already knows what’s happened. He’s the one who discovered that the man my father hired isn’t a lawyer, and that our divorce doesn’t exist. But there’s something else—something vitally important to me that I could lose if this comes out.”
“What’s that?”
“I need a discreet—preferably secret—divorce so that there won’t be any gossip or publicity about us. You see, my father is going to take a leave of absence because of his health, and I desperately want the chance to fill in for him as interim president. I need that chance to prove to the board of directors that when he retires permanently, I’m capable of handling the presidency of the corporation. The board is hesitant to appoint me interim president—as I told you, they’re very conservative and they already have doubts about me because I’m relatively young for the position, and because I’m a woman. I already have those two strikes against me, and the press hasn’t helped by portraying me as a frivolous social butterfly, which is what they like to do. If the press gets hold of our situation, they’ll turn it into a carnival. I’ve announced my engagement to a very upright, important banker and you’re supposed to be marrying a half-dozen starlets, but here we are—still married to each other. Potential bigamy doesn’t get people appointed to the presidency of Bancroft’s. I promise you, if this comes out, it will put an end to my chances.”
“I don’t doubt you believe that,” Matt said, “but I don’t think it would be as damaging to your chances as you think it would.”
“Don’t you?” she said bitterly. “Think how you reacted when I told you the lawyer was a fraud. You instantly leapt to the conclusion that I am an inept imbecile incapable of managing my own life, let alone anything else, like a department store chain. That is exactly how the board will react, because they’re not one bit fonder of me than you are.”
“Couldn’t your father simply make it clear he wants them to appoint you?”
“Yes, but according to the bylaws of the corporation, the board of directors has to unanimously agree on the election of a president. Even if my father did control them, I’m not certain he’d intercede in my behalf.”
Matt was spared the need to reply to that because a waiter was bringing their drinks and another was approaching the table, carrying a cordless telephone. “You have a call, Mr. Farrell,” he said. “The caller said you instructed that he call you here.”
Knowing the call had to be from Tom Anderson, Matt excused himself to Meredith, then he picked up the receiver and said without preamble, “What’s the story on the Southville Zoning Commission?”
“It’s not good, Matt,” Tom said. “They’ve turned us down.”
“Why in God’s name would they turn down a rezoning request that can only benefit their community?” Matt said, more stunned than angry at that moment.
“According to my contact on the commission, someone with a lot of influence told them to turn us down.”
“Any idea who it is?”
“Yeah. A guy named Paulson heads the commission. He told several members of it, including my contact, that Senator Davies said he’d consider it a personal favor if our rezoning request was denied.”
“That’s odd,” Matt said, frowning, trying to recall if he’d donated money to Davies’s campaign or to his opponent, but before he could remember, Anderson added in a voice reeking with sarcasm, “Did you happen to see a mention of a birthday party given for the good senator in the society column?”
“No, why?”
“It was given by one Mr. Philip A. Bancroft. Is there any connection between him and the Meredith we were talking about last week?”
Fury, white hot and deadly, exploded in Matt’s chest. His gaze lifted to Meredith, noting her sudden pallor which could only be attributed to his mention of the Southville Zoning Commission. To Anderson he said softly, icily, “There’s a connection. Are you at the office?” Anderson said he was, and Matt told him, “Stay there. I’ll be back at three o’clock and we’ll discuss the next steps.”
Slowly, deliberately, Matt placed the phone back on its cradle, then he looked at Meredith, who’d suddenly developed a consuming need to smooth nonexistent creases in the tablecloth with her fingernail. Guilt and knowledge were written across her face, and he hated her at that moment, despised her with a virulence that was almost uncontainable. She had asked for this meeting not to “bury the hatchet,” as she’d claimed, but because she wanted something—several things: She wanted to marry her precious banker, she wanted the presidency of Bancroft’s, and she wanted a quick, quiet divorce. He was glad she wanted those things so badly, because she wasn’t going to get them. What she and her father were going to get was a war, a war they were going to lose to him . . . along with everything they had. He signaled the waiter for the check. Meredith realized what he was doing, and the alarm that had quaked through her when he mentioned the Southville Zoning Commission escalated to panic. They hadn’t agreed to anything yet, and suddenly he was putting a premature end to the discussion. The waiter presented
the check in a folded leather case, and Matt yanked a hundred-dollar bill from his wallet, tossed it on top of the check without ever looking at it, and stood up. “Let’s go,” he snapped, already coming around the table and pulling out her chair.
“But we haven’t agreed on anything,” Meredith said desperately as he took her elbow in a tight grip and began urging her toward the door.
“We’ll finish our discussion in the car.”
Rain was pounding the red canopy in heavy sheets when they emerged, and the uniformed doorman who was stationed at the curb opened his umbrella, holding it over their heads as they climbed into the limousine.
Matt instructed his chauffeur to drive to Bancroft’s department store, and then he gave her his full attention. “Now,” he said softly, “what is it you want to do?”
His tone suggested he was going to cooperate, and she felt a mixture of relief and shame—shame because she knew why the zoning commission had turned him down, just as she knew why he was going to be denied membership at the Glenmoor Country Club. Mentally vowing to somehow force her father to undo the damage he’d done to Matt in those two places, she said quietly, “I want us to get a very quick, secret divorce—preferably out of state or out of the country—and I want the fact of our having been married to remain secret.”
He nodded, as if giving the matter favorable consideration, but his next words jarred her. “And if I refuse, how can you retaliate? I suppose,” he speculated in a coldly amused voice, “you could continue to cut me dead at boring society functions and your father could have me blackballed at every other country club in Chicago.”
He already knew about her father blackballing him at Glenmoor! “I’m sorry about what he did at Glenmoor. Truly I am.”
He laughed at her earnestness. “I don’t give a damn about your precious country club. Someone nominated me after I’d told him not to bother.”
Despite his words, Meredith didn’t believe he didn’t care. He wouldn’t be human if he hadn’t been deeply embarrassed at being denied membership. Guilt and shame for her father’s petty viciousness made her glance slide away from his. She’d enjoyed his company at lunch, and he’d seemed to enjoy hers too. It had felt so good to talk to him as if the ugly past didn’t exist. She didn’t want to be his enemy; what had happened years ago wasn’t entirely his fault. They both had new lives now—lives they’d made for themselves. She was proud of her accomplishments; he had every right to be proud of his. His forearm was resting on the back of the seat, and Meredith gazed at the elegant, wafer-thin gold watch that gleamed at his wrist, and then at his hand. He had wonderful, capable, masculine hands, she thought. Long ago, those hands had been callused, now they were manicured—
She had a sudden, absurd impulse to take his hand in her own and say, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for the things we’ve done to hurt each other; I’m sorry we were so wrong for each other.
“Are you trying to see if I still have grease under my fingernails?”
“No!” Meredith gasped, her gaze shooting to his enigmatic gray eyes. With quiet dignity she admitted, “I was wishing that things could have ended differently . . . ended so that we could at least be friends now.”
“Friends?” he repeated with biting irony. “The last time I was friendly with you, it cost me my name, my bachelorhood, and a hell of a lot else.”
It has cost you more than you know, Meredith thought miserably. It has cost you a factory you want to build in Southville, but somehow I will make that right. I’ll force my father to rectify the damage he’s done and make him agree never to interfere with you again. “Matt, listen to me,” she said, suddenly desperate to make things right between them. “I’m willing to forget the past and—”
“That’s gracious of you,” he jeered.
Meredith stiffened, sorely tempted to point out that she was the injured party, the abandoned spouse, but then she squelched the impulse and continued doggedly. “I said I was willing to forget the past, and I am. If you’ll agree to a quiet, congenial divorce, I’ll do everything I can to smooth things over for you here in Chicago.”
“Just how do you think you can smooth things over for me in Chicago, princess?” he asked, his voice reeking with sarcastic amusement.
“Don’t call me princess! I’m not being condescending, I’m trying to be fair.”
Matt leaned back and regarded her, his eyes shuttered. “I apologize for being rude, Meredith. What is it that you intend to do for me?”
Relieved by his apparent chance in attitude, she said quickly, “For a start, I can make certain you aren’t treated like a social outcast. I know my father blocked your membership at our club, but I will try to make him change that—”
“Let’s forget about me,” he suggested smoothly, revolted by her wheedling and hypocrisy. He’d liked her better when she’d stood her ground at the opera and haughtily insulted him. But she needed something from him now, and Matt was glad it was desperately important to her. Because she wasn’t going to get it. “You want a nice, quiet divorce because you want to marry your banker and because you want to be president of Bancroft’s, right?” When she nodded, Matt continued. “And the presidency of Bancroft’s is very, very important to you?”
“I want it more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life,” Meredith averred eagerly. “You—you will cooperate, won’t you?” she said, searching his unreadable face as the car pulled to a stop in front of Bancroft’s.
“No.” He said it with such polite finality that for a moment Meredith’s mind went blank.
“No?” she repeated in angry disbelief. “But the divorce is—”
“Forget it!” he snapped.
“Forget it? Everything I want hinges on it!”
“That’s too damned bad.”
“Then I’ll get one without your consent!” she flung back.
“Try it and I’ll make a stink you’ll never live down. For starters, I’ll sue your spineless banker for alienation of affection.”
“Alienation of—” Too stunned to be cautious, Meredith burst out with a bitter laugh. “Have you lost your mind? If you do that, you’ll look like an ass, like a heartbroken, jilted husband.”
“And you’ll look like an adulteress,” he countered.
Fury erupted through Meredith’s entire body. “Damn you!” she raged, her color rising. “If you dare to publicly embarrass Parker, I’ll kill you with my own two hands! You’re not fit to touch his shoes!” she exploded. “He’s ten times the man you are! He doesn’t need to try to bed every woman he meets. He has principles, he’s a gentleman, but you wouldn’t understand that because underneath that tailor-made suit you’re wearing, you’re still nothing but a dirty steelworker from a dirty little town with a dirty, drunken father!”
“And you,” he said savagely, “are still a vicious, conceited bitch!”
Meredith swung, palm open, then swallowed a gasp of pain as Matt caught her wrist an inch from his face, holding it in a crushing grip, while he warned in a silky voice: “If the Southville Zoning Commission doesn’t reverse their decision, there will be no further discussion of a divorce. If I decide to give you a divorce, I’ll decide the terms and you and your father will go along with them.” Increasing the pressure on her wrist, he jerked her forward until their faces were only inches apart. “Do you understand me, Meredith? You and your father have no power over me. Cross me one more time, and you’ll wish to God your mother had aborted you!”
Meredith jerked her arm free of his grasp. “You are a monster!” she hissed. Rain spattered on her cheek and she snatched up her gloves and purse and threw a quelling look at the chauffeur/bodyguard, who had opened the door for her, and was watching their altercation with the enthusiastic intensity of a spectator at a tennis match.
As she climbed out of the car, Ernest rushed forward, belatedly recognizing Meredith, ready to defend her from whatever peril she might be in. “Did you see the man in that car?” she demanded of the Bancroft doorman. When he sai
d that he had indeed, she said, “Good. If he ever comes near this store, you are to call the police!”
28
Joe O’Hara pulled the car over to the curb in front of Intercorp’s building, and before it came to a complete stop, Matt flung open the door and climbed out.
“Tell Tom Anderson to come up here,” he ordered Miss Stern as he stalked past her on the way into his office after having lunch with Meredith. “And then try to find me some aspirin.”
Two minutes later, she appeared at his desk with a glass of cold water and two aspirin. “Mr. Anderson is on his way up,” she said, studying his face as he tossed down the tablets. “You have a very busy schedule. I hope you aren’t getting the flu. Mr. Hursh is out sick with it, and so are two of the vice presidents and half the word processing department. It starts with a headache.”
Since she’d never shown any overt interest in his personal well-being, Matt naturally assumed her only concern was that he be able to stick to his working schedule. “I am not getting the flu,” he said shortly. “I never get sick.” He ran a hand around the back of his neck, absently massaging the aching muscles. The headache that had been only a minor, nagging discomfort this morning was beginning to pound.
“If it is the flu, it can last for weeks and even turn into pneumonia. That’s what happened to Mrs. Morris in advertising and Mr. Lathrup in personnel, and they’re both in the hospital. Perhaps you ought to plan on resting instead of going to Indiana next week. Otherwise your schedule—”
“I do not have the flu,” Matt enunciated tightly. “I have a common, garden-variety headache.”
She stiffened at his tone, turned on her heel, and marched out, bumping into Tom Anderson on the way.
“What’s Miss Stern’s problem?” Tom asked, glancing over his shoulder.
“She’s afraid she’ll have to reschedule my appointments,” Matt said impatiently. “Let’s talk about the zoning commission.”