Any Given Moment (The Alexandra Chronicles Book 3) Page 3

  "What's the matter?" Henry asked her.

  "Oh, nothing," Millicent said, "nothing but a few ruminations, Hill. Here, let me pour you some more tea."

  "I've checked off the names of the clients on the list who'll want to help," Henry said. "My idea, Millicent, is to mount a public relations campaign against Creighton Berns, a client protest."

  Millicent put the teapot down and let her eyes run over the list. She was pleased that Hill had come to the same conclusion, that the only place to wage war was on the public relations field, but her spirit sagged when she noted how many of the names on the list were not checked off. Most of these names belonged to best-selling writers and celebrities at the top of their game, clients who no doubt correctly perceived that opposing ICA might pose a threat to their career. Young hooligan or not, Creighton Berns was now in charge of one of the most powerful talent agencies in the world.

  The thirty or so names that were checked off did little to boost Millicent's spirits. They were almost all once-famous Hillings & Hillings writers who had long since retired from the best-seller lists. Millicent knew almost all of them personally, and had known them for years.

  Who is Patty Kleczak? Millicent wondered, seeing a name checked that she didn't recognize at all.

  Elizabeth Robinson she knew. Millicent had met her years ago at a party in Sag Harbor. Elizabeth had been staying with Hill and Dottie in Water Mill. She had written a best-seller about an En­glish duchess, and then there had been a movie. Now Elizabeth Robinson was on TV, on PBS—Millicent had seen the show—so at least she was somebody, and that would help their cause.

  Millicent pushed another sandwich on Hill. He looked dread­fully thin. For herself she skipped the sandwiches and went straight to the iced teacakes she so adored the Plaza for.

  Toward the end of the client list were two names checked off that Millicent thought could lead to something. One was Mont­gomery Grant Smith, the ultraconservative right-wing radio talk-­show host. He was a rather obese young fellow, half-intellectual and half-adolescent, who hosted a radio show out of Chicago that had exploded in popularity in recent years. Millicent had actually met him; after "Big Mont" said at a Chicago Tribune book and author luncheon a few years ago that President Carter was really Eleanor Roosevelt back from the dead without lipstick, she had tripped him on the podium with her pocketbook.

  However, as much of a jackass as Millicent considered Mont­gomery Grant Smith to be, there were millions of people who listened to him, and his book, Visions for America, had been on the best-seller list for two straight years now. In other words, a big mass-media right-winger like Montgomery Grant Smith could give a Hollywood-type like Creighton Berns a very bad time.

  The other promising name was the last one on the list, last perhaps because Georgiana Hamilton-Ayres technically had not been represented by the Hillingses since she was eight years old. The Hillingses had also represented the memoirs of her mother, Lilliana Bartlett, a movie star Millicent had always loved. Today, Georgiana Hamilton-Ayres was a brilliant young actress in her own right, and few people remembered the book she had written and published as a child, Bunny on the Run, which had made news at the time because of the author's age and the fame of her mother.

  Georgiana's mother, Lilliana, had, in fact, starred in the movie adaptation of Millicent's first novel, A Dark Garden. She had also been married four or five times and was an alumna of just about every sanatorium in the country, but if poor Lilliana was completely crazy and pathetic now, she had once been an utterly brilliant and gorgeous actress. In 1960 she had made a movie in Scotland, where she met and subsequently married eccentric old Lord Hamilton­-Ayres. In less than two years, however, she was back in Hollywood, back into pills and alcohol and increasingly wild situations, only this time with a nanny and little baby in tow. At one point, Millicent could remember, Lilliana had gotten so bad that Dottie and Hill had to take the child in.

  At any rate, Georgiana Hamilton-Ayres had grown up to be a much better actress than her mother, and apparently without the pitfalls of her mother's excesses. At thirty-two she had already been nominated for two Academy Awards, and had become something of an international sex symbol. In short, Georgiana was great box office. And Georgiana was an ICA client whose concerns they would surely pay heed to.

  "So what do you think?" Henry asked.

  Millicent sighed, sipped her tea, and returned her cup to its saucer. "My dear Hill, with the exception of Georgiana Hamilton­-Ayres, Montgomery Grant Smith, and to a much lesser degree Elizabeth Robinson, I don't think ICA will care what the people checked off on this list think."

  "To a certain extent, you're right, Millicent," Henry said, "but to the world, they're still household names, and from a public re­lations point of view, they can still pull in the press."

  "Perhaps," Millicent said doubtfully. She really did not want her friend to get his hopes up about this.

  "The key," Henry said, "is that Doe and I remain completely unconnected to what the clients do. No one can know I ever had anything to do with this. Millicent, this is your idea, the clients banding together for a protest."

  "Yes, of course, not to worry," she said, reaching over to pat his hand comfortingly. "But one thing you must tell me, Hill, is what, in heaven's name, is a Patty Kleecker-zak?"

  "Klee-zak, it's pronounced Klee-zak," Henry said. "She's one of Doe's most promising romance suspense writers. As a matter of fact, we were going to ask you for a quote."

  "Oh," Millicent said, frowning slightly. There was nothing worse than being asked to endorse yet another writer who would probably dwindle her own sales, but she would trust her friends' judgment. If they thought this Patty Klee-clacker-knacker woman deserved a quote from her, then at least she could read the book. "It's a first novel?"

  "Yes," Henry said, "but she's been working on it for, oh, I don't know, about eleven years, I think."

  "Eleven years," Millicent repeated. "I see, a regular Egyptian pyramid of romance suspense."

  Henry looked at her. "Millicent."

  "I'll be very nice, I promise," she told him, thinking, well, she'd try anyway.

  4

  No one who saw her that afternoon was likely to recognize Patty Jamison Kleczak as the next Phyllis Whitney. Dressed in blue jeans, a man's striped cotton shirt—the long sleeves rolled up over her elbows—and a Boston Red Sox hat, which was yanked down over her eyes, Patty was yelling at the umpire.

  Her son Kevin was at the plate, squinting into the sun, his jaw locked in determination. It was the ninth inning and his team was trailing by one run: he had two strikes, no balls, and there were no runners on base—and two outs.

  His team—the Dodgers—was undefeated. The regular coach, Ted Kleczak, Patty's husband and Kevin's father, was on the road with the Stanton High School Tigers at the championships in Omaha, where their elder son, Jimmy, was playing second base.

  The pitch.

  Kevin's bat hit the ball with a resounding crack as he fouled off what would have been the third strike.

  "That's good, Kev, that's good, Kev, you know what to do!" Patty called to her son, clapping her hands. "Come on, straighten it out." Having been married to a gym teacher for eighteen years, she knew what to say.

  Kevin adjusted his helmet and stepped into the batter's box again.

  "Wake up, you guys," Patty growled to the team on the bench. "Let's have a little support here."

  "Come on, Kev!" the boys started yelling. "You can do it!" "Big hit coming, big hit!"

  Patty watched as her youngest child brought his bat back and crouched, trying to anticipate the pitch. He was the best of her three kids, which was a terrible observation for a mother to make, but nonetheless true. She never had to worry about Kevin; he was good-looking but didn't know it; athletic and a good sport; he liked girls in a shy but admiring way, and otherwise enjoyed getting A's in school just to see if he could do it. It was almost a full-time job not to smother this baby with affection and love, particular
ly since he was an anomaly—an affectionate thirteen-year-old.

  Was she, in return, a good mother? She hoped so, but some days she had to wonder.

  Her desire to be a writer had grown into a real passion for writing. Her mood swings almost always occurred when she felt used or taken for granted by her family while every other part of her was screaming to be upstairs in the attic with Jimmy's old Radio Shack computer and her little fan, working on her novel.

  Working on her novel. After eleven years, it was finally finished. Only this morning a woman from International Communications Agency had called from California to ask for a fresh copy of the manuscript.

  California. What would her life be like if someone in Holly­wood wanted to make her story into a movie? She couldn't even think about it without shaking.

  She'd never forget telling Ted that Mrs. Hillings had said her novel was ready to submit to publishing houses. He had been stand­ing in front of the TV, playing with the remote control, and he had frozen before swiveling around on the balls of his feet, like a wide-­eyed Bela Lugosi on a revolving pedestal. "You're kidding," he had said.

  She shook her head, beaming. The poor guy didn't know what to do. He had seen that manuscript go in and out of the house probably a hundred times over the past eleven years and now it was ready to sell. What had been called—alternately in anger and in jest, "your endless fucking book"—was finally going to be submitted for publication by one of the country's finest literary agencies.

  "Now, honey, let's not get too excited," he had said softly, taking her face in his hands, "not until we see what happens."

  "I know what's going to happen," she told him confidently, sliding her arms around his waist and resting the side of her face against his chest. "And I'm going to like being a published writer just fine."

  "I hope so, baby, for your sake," he had murmured, not for the first time.

  The pitch.

  Crack went Kevin's bat.

  Necks craned as Patty held her breath.

  "Foul ball!" the umpire yelled, crouched over the line, as the left fielder chased down the ball.

  Still two strikes. No balls. Nobody on base. Behind by one run. If anyone could pull this off under this kind of pressure, Patty knew it would be Kevin. He had always had a cool head. When he was ten he had thought to pick up the end of his brother's finger and bring it inside the house after Jimmy had cut it off while using the electric shears. He had even prompted his shocked mother to pack it in ice. Today, it was back on the end of his brother's left index finger.

  The pitch.

  There was a muffled thud.

  "Ooooooo," said all the boys.

  The ball lay at Kevin's feet. He had dropped his bat and was clutching his shoulder.

  "Kevin!" Patty cried, running over. "Oh, sweetheart, are you all right?" she asked, touching the hand that was holding his shoulder.

  "It's okay, Mom," he said out of the side of his mouth, keeping his eye on the ump.

  "Batter takes a base!" the ump announced.

  The team applauded as Kevin trotted off to first base. When he reached it, he took off his helmet and made a humble bow to the bench.

  Patty smiled. Their three children were so different. If that had been Jimmy, he would never have looked at the bench. He would have focused solely on the game, face ablaze, embarrassed to be the center of attention. And if it were their middle child, Mary Ellen—oh well, Mary Ellen refused to play any sport.

  Mary Ellen had been transformed into a rather horrible child recently, a child who deeply resented everything her mother said or did, which, of course, made her difficult adolescence an experience shared by her entire family.

  Before the game tonight, when Patty had asked Mary Ellen to set the table and turn on the oven at 6 P.M. she was told that she was an evil, wicked woman who couldn't possibly be Mary Ellen's real mother. Looking at her watch now, Patty couldn't help but wonder if the daughter of the evil, wicked woman had turned on the oven. Whether they ate dinner tonight or not depended on it, not that Mary Ellen would care. Lately she had steadfastly refused to eat most of Patty's nutritious meals, wishing instead to live on cookies and chocolate and potato chips so she could wail and scream and pout and sob over her weight and skin.

  "Why didn't you give me your thighs?" Mary Ellen would de­mand. "Why did I get Daddy's awful legs? And why do you have such nice hair and I have such stringy hair?"

  As for Mary Ellen's complexion, on that subject she was very clear. "Look at what you've done to me, Mother!" she would say, glaring, pointing to the acne on her chin. "You disfigured me."

  Kevin had raised the team's hopes to a fevered pitch by getting to first base, only to be the one to dramatically dash them when Cokey Drasso, up next, hit a legitimate single and Kevin, pressing his luck, tried for third. After a lousy slide, he was tagged out almost a foot away from the base.

  So they lost the game and Kevin was crushed, as Patty knew he would be, until his father the coach came home that night and explained to him why it was all right to make a mistake. Kevin refused a ride from Patty, asking to walk home so he could think over the game. She said fine and stopped at the bank cash machine a few blocks away to deposit some money into their account, hoping to cover the check she had written the day before for her new dress before it bounced. She thought of this purchase as her new author dress.

  Why was it there always seemed to be money somewhere for everyone in the family but herself? Her friend Alice had first pointed this out to her and it was true, but ever since Alice started going to therapy she had become a pain. Everything Patty did suddenly had subtle but important implications, instead of reflecting exactly what she was: a tired mother and housewife who did free-lance typing and longed for the writing career she had postponed for years.

  She had been a daddy’s girl. Daddy had been given four daugh­ters in a row before Patty; she was his last chance for a son. When things didn't work out, her father decided to teach Patty everything he had been waiting to teach a son. So when Patty Jamison grad­uated from St. Mary's, she was a lovely, accomplished young woman who could change a tire in under five minutes, mow a lawn, build a tree house, throw a perfect spiral, and balance a checkbook.

  It was as if she had been raised to marry Ted. He was a gym teacher and an aspiring coach, and he had been looking for a dif­ferent sort of woman, someone who was interested in what he did and could keep up with all he did. He wanted a woman who could play ball, who loved the femininity of being a woman, who also wanted to be pals with an out-and-out jock, and who wanted a passionate sexual attachment. He found her in Patty.

  She had fallen in love with him very early on. And what attracted her wasn't only how handsome he was, or what all-star qualities he had, but the way he related to her, and to all women. Ted had grown up the only son in a family with three girls, and he had become one of those wonderful men who loved women as his friends.

  Patty had been a sophomore at Rosemont College in Philadel­phia when she met Ted. He had been one year out of Holy Cross and was teaching in Bala-Cynwyd. They dated for a few months and then went away for a weekend together in Cape May, where they had sex for the first time. It was wonderful.

  He was a tender and strong and terrific lover. And best yet, he was in love with her.

  They had used condoms and done very well with them until the wee hours of the morning on Sunday, when they had sort of for­gotten.

  It had been wonderful to awaken then, feeling Ted's arms around her, his body curved behind hers, and realize, in an instant, that he was awake and trying not to wake her, although he had an erection straining against her. Ted was so in control about every­thing, that to feel his need and desire thrilled her and excited her enormously. And so she had reached down and taken his hand, brought it up to her mouth, kissed it, and then moved it down to hold her breast, still lying away from him.

  They didn't say anything. He massaged her breast and kissed her neck and his erection brushed lightly again
st her buttocks.

  She pulled her leg forward, instinctively, not really understand­ing what she was doing, but doing it all the same because it seemed lovely and right and Ted murmured something and she moaned softly, and then he had slowly tried to find his way in from behind.

  It surprised and delighted Patty and she wasn't sure why—be­cause she was wondering, does it work this way? and she was pretty sure Ted was wondering the same thing, for he was being very cautious, which made it all the more wonderful—and then the next thing she knew, he was inside her from behind, holding her with his left arm above, his mouth in her neck, and right arm holding her below, hand down over the front of her, pulling him toward her, rubbing her in the most marvelous way.

  It was the first real orgasm she had ever had and after that, sex was never the same. Sex was Ted. Love was Ted. Ted was a miracle of emotion and now of physical exquisiteness, too, which she had never felt before.

  Her father had said Ted was just a gym teacher, not some sort of a god.

  But he had been. To her.

  Their elder son, James Edward, had been conceived on that lovely morning in Cape May. A great deal of confusion and pain and torment ensued when Patty didn't get her period and finally went to the Planned Parenthood clinic to get a pregnancy test.

  When it came back positive, Ted immediately offered to marry her, and she knew he meant it. The problem wasn't him, or that they didn't love each other. For Patty the question was whether she was prepared to give up her schooling and freedom for immediate marriage and motherhood.

  At twenty, Patty became a wife and mother. While she didn't regret her decision, she came to resent the fact she could not get a job that paid more than it would cost her for daycare. So until Jimmy was old enough to go to school, work was out of the ques­tion. By the time the Kleczaks moved to Stanton, New Jersey the following year, where Ted got a job as the assistant football coach at Stanton High, Patty decided she might as well go ahead and have two more children while she was at it. A year later she gave birth to Mary Ellen and scarcely a year and a half after that Kevin was born. Sweet little Kevin. He was thirteen now and she was thirty-seven; where had the time gone.