A ruling passion : a novel, page 37
"I have an idea," Nick said one morning early in October. It was three weeks before they would switch from Sybille's programming to their own.
Les sat back and stretched his legs. They were sitting in Nick's office, once Sybille's, almost bare since Sybille had removed her furniture. The two men sat on folding chairs beside unpacked boxes of books they were using as coffee tables; nearby were six more chairs, and across the room, in front of windows looking into other office windows, was Nick's desk and drafting table, shipped from California. That left him no desk for his office at home. One of these days he planned to go shopping; so far he had not taken the time.
"What idea?" Les asked. He poured two cups of coffee and handed one to Nick. The two men had become friends almost the moment they met. On the surface, they could not have been more different. Les
was twenty years older, a self-proclaimed failure as a radio announcer who had lost two jobs when his stations were sold and a third when he quit after being ordered to report early election returns and projections in favor of certain candidates before the polls closed. He was happily married to his high-school sweetheart and struggling to send two children through college. Compared to Nick's brilliant success, he seemed to have little. But the two of them shared ideas about television, about news, and about the world they lived in; they were at ease with each other, and worked together in the same harmony Nick had known with Ted Mcllvain at Omega.
"What would you think of a program called The Other Side of the News'?" Nick asked. "Subtitled: What Didn't They Say? What Didn't They Show?'"
Les considered it. "I like it. We show a speech, the President for example, a senator, somebody at the UN—"
"Or someone in business. Not just politics."
"And then we have somebody else give the speech, parts of it anyway, with what was left out."
"Or what was bent out of shape."
"Lies," Les said. "People lie and politicians lie better."
"We're going to think of every way of saying 'lie' without saying it." Nick grinned. "Or we don't say anything; we use a scene—some action that shows, without any words, or as few as possible, what was missing or false about the statement we just heard. We can do the same with television, and newspapers, by the way. If a reporter distorts a story, I'd want to show that too. No sacred cows."
"Good tide," Les murmured. He was making notes. "So who's going to produce this show? Everyone is already overloaded."
"We'll have to hire someone. If you have any names, I'll follow them up."
"I might, in my office. I'll go look. Any other ideas?"
"Yes, but they're for Monica."
"Entertainment. Like what?"
"The Bookstall.' Review of new books."
"Nobody'll watch it."
"Nobody?"
"Ahandftil."
"Then we'll do it for a handftil. There are two shows reviewing movies on the networks; I want one for books."
"Good," said Les promptly. "I don't mind a handftil if you don't.
Monica can probably produce it herself. Anything else?"
"A few dozen; we'll talk about them later. Do you have anything new?"
"A notebookful; you'll get them all eventually. You and Chad want to come to dinner tonight?"
"Sure. If you don't mind listening to Chad talk about his new school."
"Still? He's been doing that since September."
"He hasn't stopped. I hope he doesn't; I've never seen him so happy."
"How about you?" Les asked. "Are you happy?"
Nick laughed. "Coming from a married man, that means, have I met someone. No; not yet. But I'm having a good time, and you know it, Les; this is as much fun as Omega ever was. I'll meet women—how couldn't I, in this town? I'm outnumbered about five to one. And I'll probably manage to get married one of these days. But I'm not going to be in a hurry; if s not important, as long as I'm having fun along the way." He stopped. The words echoed from a distant memory. Someone else had said that. Why should I be in a hurry when Fm havin£[ so much fun alon^ the way?
Valerie, sitting on the grass at Stanford, sunlight glinting on her tawny hair, laughing at him for being so serious. The scene came back so vividly Nick could hear her laughter, feel the warmth of the sun, recall even the names of the books she had bought at the bookstore a few minutes earlier, when they had just met.
"Nick? You with me?"
"Sorry," Nick said. "I just remembered something."
"Must be quite a woman, whoever she is." Les clipped his pencil into his shirt pocket and went to the door. "I'll look for producers. And I'll write up my ideas for The Other Side of the News.'"
"Ask Monica to come in, will you? And the three of us will meet tomorrow,"
"Right. Hell of a deal to see things moving, isn't it?"
The third week in October, the same week Sybille called Nick from her new home near Leesburg to tell him she'd been at a fox hunt and had met an interesting man, EScN signed off at midnight and came on the air six hours later with a completely new schedule. It had none of the excitement of that trade show in California, when Nick knew, the minute Omega's new computers began to sell, that they were on their way; with television, they had to wait for mail and telephone calls firom viewers, and to see if the number of subscribers rose, or fell. Still,
as they watched the first day unfold, the steady march of programs they had bought, and the news they were producing, there was an air of excitement in the E8cN studios that Nick would not have exchanged for anything in the world.
After that, through the fall and winter, as Nick drove back and forth across the Key Bridge between Georgetown and Fairfax to be with Chad as much as possible, he and Les and Monica and the executive staff they had gathered worked the crazy hours of people who are absolutely convinced they can overcome any obstacle. They made plans and schedules, and projections of audiences and advertisers, and steadily expanded the programming and the reputation of E&N. Through heavy advertising, and then by word of mouth, the audience started to grow. By July, a little over a year after Nick and Chad had moved to Washington, the network was broadcasting eighteen hours a day to twenty million households. "Piddling," Les said, making light of his excitement. "But it's a hell of a deal to see things moving."
E8cN produced some of its own programs, but bought most of them. Monica chose American and foreign films, but the greatest part of the programming was chosen by an Acquisitions Committee that Nick had formed. The committee screened the thousands of tapes sent by production companies, and selected the best, to fill over a thousand hours of programming a year.
Most of the programs were aired three times: once in the daytime, once during evening prime time on the East Coast, and again during prime time in the West. A program guide was printed, and a separate version of it, for schools, listed books and movies that could be used with some of the programs for classroom discussion. Reporters were hired and news bureaus opened, at first in just a few cities around the country; later, in major cities around the world. And, in August, one of the programs in "The Other Side of the News" series won an Emmy Award in the news category. "A hell of a deal," said Les jubilantly, and the next day Sybille called Nick to congratulate him.
"Ifs amazing, the way you grab hold," she said. "You didn't know the first thing about television when you bought EBN, and now you're winning awards."
"I read a few books," Nick said dryly.
"Well." Sybille took a breath, and Nick knew she was about to change the subject to herself. "You might be surprised at the things Fm doing; you haven't asked, but—"
"You haven't been around for quite a while."
There was a pause. "I know. I did call Chad; didn't he tell you?"
^Tes. Once in the last five weeks."
"And lie called me. Did he tell you that?"
"No," Nick said, surprised. "But he doesn't tell me everything he does; I'm glad he called. I hope he does it more often."
Sybille waited for him to ask what she had been doing that kept her away. "Well," she said again, "what kept me away was the cathedral I'm building for Lily Grace."
''Cathedral?''
"Nick, you don't understand what Lily can do to an audience. You've always underestimated her. And me; you've underestimated me. You didn't give me credit for being able to mold her into a valuable property. I told you you were wrong; remember? You were so wrong, Nick. I've done incredible things with her; I've taught her what to say, how to speak, what phrases to use, what to wear... she's more polished now, more believable. I've got her to the point where she can make people in the audience cry; you wouldn't believe the look in their eyes. Haven't you seen her lately? Don't you watch your competition?"
"Not all of it and not all the time. Who carries her?"
"Channel Twenty in Baltimore at seven on Sunday nights, and Channel Eighteen in Philadelphia at seven-thirty on Tuesday nights. You can get both of those. I wish you'd watch her, Nick."
"I'll try. I've been working most nights."
"Still? What about your social life? Nick, would you come out and see the cathedral? It's not far; just outside Culpeper. I'm building it with money people are sending in—isn't that fantastic?—all those people wanting Lily to have a place of her own to preach. Come this weekend, Nick; I really want to show it to you. Chad too; he'd like it. We can go back to my farm afterward and he can do some riding; last time he was there he was getting very good."
"I'm sorry; I don't have the time. But I'll drive Chad to your farm; I'd like him to do some riding, and he could spend the day with you."
"Nick, I want you to see the cathedral. It's something I'm doing. I saw your show, the one that got the award; I watch most of the series. The least you can do is take a few hours and see what I'm doing. You're not the only one who's being successftil, you know."
Nick heard the defensive anger in her voice. "All right," he said after a moment. "And Chad will get a couple of hours of riding."
"Of course. Saturday morning, ten-thirty, at my farm. We'll drive together from there."
She was waiting for them when they arrived on Saturday, and she sat in the front seat of Nick's car, with Chad in back, for the drive to
Culpeper. The brilliant fall foliage spread golden and russet swaths across the rolling fields; the weathered fences were dark silhouettes against the pale grass of the pastureland; a few clouds trailed long fingers across the dense blue sky. Driving in silence as Sybille pointed out the farms they passed, naming their owners and their pedigrees, Nick felt a deep sense of melancholy. The landscape was so beautiful he longed to share it with someone he loved: a woman whose heart would be touched, as his was, by the timeless serenity of these fields and woods, the embrace of the golden sun in the arching blue sky. I've missed so much, he thought as he drove on the almost-empty road. All these years—good ones, with work and Chad and friends—and once I thought that was enough. Or told myself that it was enough, I needed no more, in fact, I should be grateful for what I had. He smiled slighdy. The lies we tell ourselves, he thought.
"What?" Sybille asked, seeing his smile.
"Just a passing thought," he replied. "Tell us about your church."
"Cathedral, We'll be there in a few minutes. It will seat a thousand people and it's on two acres—room for lots of parking—and the money comes from everywhere—wherever Lily is on the air."
'*How many stations do you have.>"
"Twenty-two, but I'm getting more all the time. It snowballs, you know; the more viewers I have, the more other stations want to be in on it. And of course everyone likes the idea of the cathedral: if Lily can pull the audience she does now, from my studio, with an audience of a couple of hundred, imagine what she can do in a cathedral that seats a thousand!"
"How much money comes in?" Nick asked curiously.
"Enough to build the Cathedral of Joy, and hind 'The Hour of Grace.' And a little more."
Her evasiveness was the first clue that the numbers must be very big.
"Here," Sybille said. "Take the next right; the road is about a quarter of a mile farther."
"Look!" Chad exclaimed. "It's gigantic!"
In fact the church was not as big as Nick had imagined, but, sitting by itself in the midst of the fields, near the edge of dense woods, it seemed to tower above them. Nick parked near a dozen workers' cars and vans in a churned-up dirt area near a side entrance. "Parking lot," Sybille said. "I'll have two more, one in back and one at the other side."
"Can we go inside?" Chad asked.
"That's what we're here for," Sybille said. "I wanted you to see it."
Nick glanced at her as they walked around the building to the high carved double doors at the front, looking for the kind of excitement he had seen in her face the evening they watched the first airing of "The Hot Seat," and again when he and Chad sat in the control room during one of her newscasts. But what he saw, instead of excitement, was cool calculation: the keen, encompassing survey of a woman who was thinking not only of this moment, but beyond it, to bigger moments to come. Bigger what? Nick wondered. She had always clawed so feverishly for attention, yet she had always been behind the scenes... what was she after now? He could not believe it was attention for Lily Grace.
It could be the money, if in fact there was as much of it as her coy answer had hinted.
Or it could be power. But it was not clear where her power would He.
"What the hell—!" Sybille exclaimed, and Nick looked toward the altar, following her gaze. They were in the nave of die church, the light a faint blue from the dark-blue vaulted ceiling painted with stars. The windows were of dark-blue stained glass set with abstract shapes of brightly colored glass like small explosions of light. There were as yet no pews, but the altar was finished: an expanse of warm pink marble with built-in planters for flowers and a pink marble pulpit with marble candlesticks on either side. Near the pulpit stood a tall man, his head back, inspecting the arched ceiling. He had a thin face, and his blond hair was a little long in back.
"What's the matter?" Chad asked. He had run up the nave and had just returned to Sybille and Nick.
"We've seen enough," Sybille said. "It's stifling in here."
"But there's some stairs," Chad said. "Couldn't we see where they go? It'd be great if there was a dungeon, like in the old days."
"No!" Sybille said sharply, but Chad had turned and was running up the nave again toward the altar. "Chad!" she shouted, and at that the man on the altar swung about.
"Sybille?" he called. He came down the broad marble steps and strode to them. As he came closer, he saw Nick, and slowed. "I didn't know you were bringing someone." He held out his hand. "Carl Ster-ling."
'*Nick Fielding." They shook hands.
"We were just leaving," Sybille said. "I promised Chad he could go riding this afternoon."
Carlton looked behind him, back toward the altar. "Chad. Your son?" he asked Nick. "I didn't make that connection. I don't think Val told me Chad's last name when she said Sybille had a son."
"Carl, we're leaving," Sybille said, an edge of desperation in her voice. "Call me tomorrow if you want to talk about the cathedral."
'Tour wife's name is Valerie?" Nick asked. "And she's a friend of Sybille's?"
"Yes, do you know her? Oh, of course, you probably do; you met Sybille at Stanford, didn't you? You'll have to get together one of these days; talk about old times—"
"Why not now?" Nick asked. His heart was pounding; he was filled with a crazy anticipation. He had not even thought of their meeting like this, accidentally, after so many years; he had never thought of the possibility that she and Sybille had kept in touch.
'What?" Carlton asked.
"Why don't we have lunch together?" Nick asked, his voice steady. "Do you live near here? We could pick up Valerie"—his voice caught on the unfamiliar sound of her name spoken aloud—"and go someplace nearby."
"That's not a good—"
"No," said Sybille flatly. "I have plans for later. Nick, if you want Chad to ride, you'll come now. I didn't plan to spend my Saturday wandering around the county—"
"Sybille's right, you know," Carlton said quickly. "Our weekends are busy and we don't do much socializing during the day. You and Chad could come down sometime if you want—you don't need to bring Sybille. You don't even need me there; just call Val and say you're coming. I'm sure she'd be pleased to see you."
"Then lefs do it now," Nick said. His rudeness and stubbornness amazed him, but he suddenly felt he did not want to wait another day. He did not want to come down at some vague time in the ftiture at Carlton's invitation; he did not want to show up alone on Valerie's doorstep. He wanted to see her; he wanted to see her now; he wanted to see her with other people around so they could call it a normal social occasion and he could banish this adolescent excitement he was feeling over a woman he had not seen for twelve years and had parted from in a quarrel.
"I'm buying lunch," he said firmly. "For old times' sake. I'd like to see Valerie again; I haven't seen her for a long time. We won't be more than a couple of hours, Sybille; I think that leaves plenty of time for Chad's ride."
Sybille stared at him, her light-blue eyes as flat as frozen ponds. She swung her look to Carlton, waiting for him to refuse once more; he had plenty of reason to. But he was silent, looking helplessly from her to Nick. A gentleman, Sybille thought contemptuously. Weak. Useless.
"If you want," she said, and walked up the nave and out of the church. Nick and Carlton looked at each other as Chad ran up. '7ust a basement," he said sadly. "No dungeons, not even a place to bury any princes. Only I guess in this church it would be a princess, wouldn't it?" He looked expectandy at Carlton, and Nick introduced them.
"We're going to lunch with Carl and his wife; it turns out she's an old friend of mine, from college."
Chad's face fell. "Can't I go riding?"
"Yes; after lunch. That was a promise. I hope you won't be too bored at lunch; we'll try to keep it short."
"Thanks," said Chad gravely. "Do you own horses, too?" he asked Carlton.
