their ages had never interfered with his friendship with Robert Powell, even though, as he turned the car off Evergreen Lane, George thought, If he ever knew, if he ever guessed . . .
But Rob Powell had never suspected. George was sure of that. George had never given him reason to.
The phone rang, an unexpected and abrupt sound. He pressed the answering button on the steering wheel.
“George Curtis,” he said.
“George, it’s Rob Powell.”
My God, was he looking out the window? George felt his face flush. No, he couldn’t possibly have read the license plate, and certainly couldn’t have recognized me just driving by.
“Rob, how are you, and when are we going to get together for a round of golf? I warn you, I broke eighty two Saturdays in a row.”
“That means you’ll never do it three weeks in a row! Tee-off time nine o’clock?”
“You’re on. I’ll make the reservation.” George felt a palpable sense of relief as he turned left onto his own street. Rob Powell was not one to stay on the line longer than necessary. That’s why when Rob said, “George, I have a favor to ask of you,” he was startled.
“Whatever it is, the answer is yes,” George said, sounding rattled to his own ears.
“I’ll take all your franchises in Europe,” Rob joked, then his tone became serious. “George, you can’t have missed the news that the anniversary of Betsy’s death in June is going to be the basis for a television program.”
“No, I didn’t miss that,” Curtis said quietly.
“The point is that, besides the girls, they’d like to have one of the friends who was there that night to comment on the party between excerpts from the films. I suggested you, and they leaped at the prospect of getting you on camera. Of course I should have asked you first, but you can always say no to them.”
Go on camera to talk about that night to a national audience? He could feel his hands turning sweaty on the steering wheel.
George Curtis found his throat constricting, but he kept his voice calm and warm as he said, “Rob, I told you a minute ago that whatever favor you wanted, it was yours. I meant it when I said it, and I mean it now.”
“Thanks. It was hard for me to ask, and I’m sure hard for you to agree.”
An abrupt click broke the connection. George Curtis realized that he was drenched with perspiration now. Was Rob Powell setting a trap for him? he asked himself as a feeling of dread engulfed him.
Now utterly distracted, he almost drove past his own driveway.
11
F rom the windows of the ornate and seldom-used living room, Jane Novak watched the stream of cars pass the house.
Today the television crew was upstairs in Betsy’s bedroom.
I mean Mrs. Powell’s bedroom, Jane thought sarcastically. Betsy had become “Mrs. Powell” to her the day she took over as housekeeper here twenty-nine years ago.
“Mr. Powell is quite traditional, Jane,” she had said. “He told me that it was fine with him if I wanted to hire you, but that it was necessary for you to refer to me that way.”
At the time, thirty-three-year-old Jane hadn’t minded. She’d been thrilled to get the job. Mr. Powell had insisted on meeting her and sent his chauffeur to bring her up for an interview. He explained that because it was such a large house, two maids from a cleaning service came in four hours a day and would work under her supervision. She would prepare the meals. If they had a dinner party, their caterers would handle it. With two maids reporting to her, instead of having to clean dressing rooms after sloppy actors, Jane could spend most of her day cooking—a joy, not a task. She couldn’t believe her good fortune.
By the time the first anniversary of working for the Powells had passed, Jane’s heartfelt gratitude for the job had evolved.
She’d fallen passionately in love with Rob Powell.
She did not for a minute believe that she would ever have the slightest prospect of his looking at her as a man
But Rob Powell had never suspected. George was sure of that. George had never given him reason to.
The phone rang, an unexpected and abrupt sound. He pressed the answering button on the steering wheel.
“George Curtis,” he said.
“George, it’s Rob Powell.”
My God, was he looking out the window? George felt his face flush. No, he couldn’t possibly have read the license plate, and certainly couldn’t have recognized me just driving by.
“Rob, how are you, and when are we going to get together for a round of golf? I warn you, I broke eighty two Saturdays in a row.”
“That means you’ll never do it three weeks in a row! Tee-off time nine o’clock?”
“You’re on. I’ll make the reservation.” George felt a palpable sense of relief as he turned left onto his own street. Rob Powell was not one to stay on the line longer than necessary. That’s why when Rob said, “George, I have a favor to ask of you,” he was startled.
“Whatever it is, the answer is yes,” George said, sounding rattled to his own ears.
“I’ll take all your franchises in Europe,” Rob joked, then his tone became serious. “George, you can’t have missed the news that the anniversary of Betsy’s death in June is going to be the basis for a television program.”
“No, I didn’t miss that,” Curtis said quietly.
“The point is that, besides the girls, they’d like to have one of the friends who was there that night to comment on the party between excerpts from the films. I suggested you, and they leaped at the prospect of getting you on camera. Of course I should have asked you first, but you can always say no to them.”
Go on camera to talk about that night to a national audience? He could feel his hands turning sweaty on the steering wheel.
George Curtis found his throat constricting, but he kept his voice calm and warm as he said, “Rob, I told you a minute ago that whatever favor you wanted, it was yours. I meant it when I said it, and I mean it now.”
“Thanks. It was hard for me to ask, and I’m sure hard for you to agree.”
An abrupt click broke the connection. George Curtis realized that he was drenched with perspiration now. Was Rob Powell setting a trap for him? he asked himself as a feeling of dread engulfed him.
Now utterly distracted, he almost drove past his own driveway.
11
F rom the windows of the ornate and seldom-used living room, Jane Novak watched the stream of cars pass the house.
Today the television crew was upstairs in Betsy’s bedroom.
I mean Mrs. Powell’s bedroom, Jane thought sarcastically. Betsy had become “Mrs. Powell” to her the day she took over as housekeeper here twenty-nine years ago.
“Mr. Powell is quite traditional, Jane,” she had said. “He told me that it was fine with him if I wanted to hire you, but that it was necessary for you to refer to me that way.”
At the time, thirty-three-year-old Jane hadn’t minded. She’d been thrilled to get the job. Mr. Powell had insisted on meeting her and sent his chauffeur to bring her up for an interview. He explained that because it was such a large house, two maids from a cleaning service came in four hours a day and would work under her supervision. She would prepare the meals. If they had a dinner party, their caterers would handle it. With two maids reporting to her, instead of having to clean dressing rooms after sloppy actors, Jane could spend most of her day cooking—a joy, not a task. She couldn’t believe her good fortune.
By the time the first anniversary of working for the Powells had passed, Jane’s heartfelt gratitude for the job had evolved.
She’d fallen passionately in love with Rob Powell.
She did not for a minute believe that she would ever have the slightest prospect of his looking at her as a man
Similar Books
