"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."
"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."
