Susan Johnson - Hot Streak

When Carey called, although she tried to behave in a civilized way, Molly's resentment was obvious.

“You made the six o'clock news,” she said. “Congratulations.” But her voice wasn't congratulatory, and she wanted to blurt out more. Is she still hot for you? How does it feel to hold the world's sexiest woman? Do you think of me when she's purring in your ear?

Instead, she said, “Carrie's missing her two weeks of camp we'd scheduled last winter,” she said. “If the danger is over, I'd like to go back home.”

“Leon can drive you. I'll fly into the Cities tomorrow. The police are being,” he paused, not wishing to go into any detail of the abduction attempt, “well… police.”

“I might still be at Kichigoomi tomorrow, dropping off Carrie,” Molly rebuffed.

“I'll wait at your place,” Carey replied.

“I may be very late.”

“I'll keep the light burning in the window.”

She needed some time to herself, Molly decided, to sort out all the Fersten charm against Darian reality, to deal with Carey's terrorist connections impinging on her daughter's normal childhood, to come to terms with the glitz and glamour surrounding an international film director in contrast to her perhaps idealized notions of a peaceful life in an old factory turned home and business.

Seeing Carey's childhood home had reinforced her impressions of aristocratic wealth and privilege. Although Bernadotte was a natural, unaffected man, he accepted all the prerogatives of affluence casually as though living in a mansion surrounded by servants, having one's own stable and airstrip were normal. While she admired his lack of pretention, she perceived a patrician noblesse he didn't even realize he exuded.

How many differences of attitude would surface day after day, month after month, between herself and Carey? Would he think her bourgeois-a Cinderella with cinders on her feet. Would she find him condescending? She embraced the melting pot ethic enough to question why a duke or duchess, a prince or princess was fawned on by society, splashed across the pages of W or Town and Country or People, when in fact, many were, at base, ignorant and boorish. With a reverse snobbery of her own, it annoyed her when wealthy ladies proudly said the millions they spent on couturier clothes were helping the economy and all the charity functions they attended were a noblesse oblige impulse to aid the needy. She found such hypocrisy offensive when children were living through blizzards with their parents in cars, cold and hungry and bewildered. And she was afraid her anger would appear incomprehensible to someone who didn't know the price of anything.

She liked to bargain shop. It was one of her favorite rushes… to buy something for fifty percent off.

The prosaic daily cycle of living might prove disastrous; she thought of the daily aggrievements that had slowly decimated the fabric of her marriage to Bart. A marriage she'd entered into with positive hopes for success. Maybe the strongest love diminished to dust in the battlefield of misunderstandings. And if there were easy answers to the question of love, all marriages would be eternal smiles of bliss. Since so many weren't… it further shook her already shaky convictions.

She wanted some time, she decided, alone at home to ponder the riddles of the universe and the lesser earthly dilemmas relating to herself and Carey Fersten. And relating to Sylvie. And Egon. And to enormous wealth which shouldn't be a problem but was. And to every other topsy-turvy emotion concerning cabbages and kings. Damn. Where was her Cinderella happy ending?

C arey spent the evening with Egon, talking about Rifat, the abduction, and all that had transpired to disrupt their lives. As he rose to leave, he said, “Eat and do your exercises. I'll be back in a few days with some doctors who'll take out that bullet in your spine. Allen's checking the current research for me. You'll be walking again in no time.”

Egon smiled, strangely content even with his paralysis. Mariel was seated beside his bed, her hand clasped in his, her smile and presence the cause of his content. “The world sure looks good,” he teased, “when you consider the alternative. And even if”-he put up a hand to stop Carey's protest-“even if things don't work out,” he quietly said, a new maturity in his tone, “I'll consider myself extremely fortunate. Now stop worrying about me and go back home to Molly.”

“And the film,” Carey said. “Allen says Tangen is raising the roof about production delays. So I'll see you in a few days, probably over the weekend,” he added, moving toward the door. “Keep an eye on Sylvie.” She was like a loose cannon, totally unpredictable.

“And then?” Egon retorted with a grin, knowing as well as Carey she was ungovernable.

“At least warn me if she's heading my way,” Carey replied, grinning back, “and I can plan a defense.”

“I'll keep her here as my ministering angel, unless of course, she becomes bored with the role.”

“A good possibility with Sylvie. She has the attention span of a puppy.” Carey was standing by the door, pleased at the sight of Egon and Mariel so obviously happy despite the daunting circumstances of Egon's injury. “Well… take care,” he said, and with a casual wave he was gone.

Carey slept on the flight home. Assuming Molly wouldn't be back from her trip to camp till midmorning at the earliest, he made arrangements to meet Allen at the airport so they could discuss both Egon and the state of their film.

Sitting across from him in the comfortable lounge of Carey's plane, Allen told him a team of doctors had been assembled and would depart for Miami in two days.

“Thanks,” Carey said, stirring two extra spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee to help keep him awake. “I appreciate all your work.”

“No problem. With all the new data bases available, we came up with a list of names immediately. Checking them out took a little longer. No bullet holes in you?” Allen was drinking Red Zinger tea from a Styrofoam cup he'd brought on board. His baseball cap sat backward on his head, a sign he was tired.

“Nope. I can run faster. Egon played the hero.”

“The papers say you did, too.”

“That's all Sylvie's hype. Ant and Luger were with me-and that's security, let me tell you. Look,” he said, uncomfortable with Sylvie's publicity, turning the discussion from heroics, “my apologies for bringing you down here this early, but I'm going to spend a couple of days with Molly, and I wanted to get the business taken care of first.”

“Speaking of business,” Allen cautiously advanced, “what do you want me to do about Tangen? He's screaming cost overruns like it was his own money.” Allen's eyebrows rose resignedly. “All those days you were gone…”

“Stall him another few days. I'll talk to you tomorrow or the next day. Right now, I'm going to see Molly, and I don't give a damn about Tangen.”

Allen swallowed and said, “Okay, Carey, whatever you say.” But he had visions of money being blown away in the wind, and his practical soul was gulping hard.

W hen Carey stopped by Molly's shortly before noon, his daughter answered the door. “Dad,” she squealed and launched herself at him like a catapult.

Scooping her up in his arms, he hugged her close, and thought: Now I know I'm truly home and safe. But she squirmed a moment later, and he realized he was holding her too tightly. Setting her back on her feet with a brushing kiss on her cheek, he said, “I thought you were going to camp.”

“Not me, Dad. I can get eaten alive by mosquitoes in the park across the street.”

“Your Mom said you were going to camp.”

“Not me,” she cheerfully repeated. “I hate camp. You have to see me ride, Dad. Grandpa said I'll be as good as you someday-maybe as good as him,” she added with a grin.

And Carey's uncharitable thoughts about the deception of camp were distracted at the word, Grandpa-a pleasant, warm-sounding word, redolent with granddaughterly affection. “You must be hot,” Carey said, ruffling her pale, silky hair, “'cuz Papa still holds some racing records from the thirties.”

“Good gene pool, hey?”

His daughter's maturity always surprised him. “Must be, Pooh,” he agreed with a grin, “because after only a week on a horse, it sure isn't the training.”

“I have to meet Lucy halfway; she's coming over, so I'll see you later,” she declared with childlike obliviousness to the fact he'd risked his life twice in the last few days for her sake. “Mom's downstairs talking to Theresa about everything she missed. She'll be thrrrrrilled to see you,” Carrie teased.

His welcome was considerably less than thrilling, however, when he walked into Molly's office. It was, in fact, cooler than he'd anticipated. He sat for twenty minutes waiting while Molly and Theresa went over the outgoing invoices. And if they hadn't been interrupted by the lunch hour, his wait would have been longer.

“I'd like some time to myself,” Molly blurted out the second the door closed on Theresa. She had to express herself before Carey's charm and beguiling tongue could change her mind. And she stayed at her desk as if she could barricade herself from his persuasive allure.

“No,” he said, expecting dissent, but not like this. His dark eyes glittered dangerously beneath his black, scowling brows. He was too tired to deal dispassionately with their differences, but he had to take it slow or risk worse disagreements. So he steeled himself to calmness.

“I'm afraid it's not open to discussion.” Molly kept her voice as moderate as possible. She was trying to be sensible about her feelings, not adversarial. She understood that Carey didn't have misgivings-he never did it seemed-and she wondered whether she'd not traveled as far as she thought from the young girl she'd once been. But maybe that was the essential difference underneath all the superficiality of Carey's wealth and glamour. Maybe they had fundamental differences in personality. She was never adamantly certain like Carey. Molly had always been prone to intellectualize and rationalize every emotional crisis. She was probably doing that again, but she'd feel more secure in her final decision if she gave herself time to examine her feelings beyond the overpowering passion she felt for Carey. Was passion enough? Would it sustain the good times and the bad times? Would it even endure? Or was passion, desire, lust, and love all one? Was she killing their relationship by dissecting it to death?