Immortals, page 9
“I know, I know,” he relented, “but things are different now. We’re on the verge of a major breakthrough in our lives, and his responsibilities have grown as well. I just don’t have time this morning to cater to temperament,” he concluded. “And besides,” he recited, “there’s nothing that ages and sickens people as much as aggravation. Paul Stoddard says avoiding things that irritate us and learning how to handle vexation is part of what we are taught at the Leon Enterprises workshop. I told you,” he added as if they were in the middle of an argument, “there is a distinct advantage and a good sales reason to remain healthy and young-looking. I don’t know why you can’t understand this.”
She was about to protest when the phone rang. It was Ellen Brenner.
“Cynthia, it works!” she exclaimed as soon as Cynthia had said hello.
“What?”
“Oh, I’m sorry to call so early. You probably think I’m crazy, but I woke up and looked at myself in the mirror and just grabbed the phone. That stuff I used yesterday at the diner. It’s a miracle cream. Is Drake there?”
“Oh,” she said, realizing. “Yes, he’s here.” She held the receiver out to him. “It’s Ellen Brenner. I let her dab her finger into the Youth Hold and smear it on her temples yesterday after the movie matinee, and she’s impressed with the results.”
Drake smiled widely and nodded. He pulled his shoulders back as if he were going to be filmed or televised speaking to her and took the receiver.
“Good morning, Ellen,” he said cheerfully. He listened and winked at Cynthia. “Of course,” he said. “You can be my first regular customer. Sure. I’ll drop by your home next week. Well, I would appreciate that. Thank you. See you soon,” he added, and he hung up.
“She’s pretty excited about the results,” he said. “She’s going to tell some of her friends, who are bound to want Youth Hold, too. See?” he said, clenching his right hand in a fist and shaking it beside his face as he leaned toward her. “As Leon Enterprises believes, nothing works better than word of mouth. If the product does what it claims to do, you don’t need expensive advertising campaigns,” he said, his voice dripping with pride.
Cynthia stared at him. It was as if he had been working for the company for years, or as if he were the owner. He had never demonstrated as much self-esteem working for Burke-Thompson, she thought. Why couldn’t she get excited about this, too? she wondered sadly.
They both turned at the sound of a car horn.
“That’s Paul,” he proclaimed happily. “The limo’s here.” His eyes burned with a new kind of fire, one kindled by excitement. He seized his briefcase and small suitcase and charged toward the front door.
“But Drake,” she cried, surprised he was leaving without going to see Debbie or kissing her good-bye, “what about Debbie?”
“Oh, you explain I had to rush off, honey. I’ll call you,” he added as he opened the door quickly.
“Drake!”
He closed the door behind him and was gone. She ran to the window that looked out on the driveway and saw him hurrying toward the stretch limousine. His look of excitement turned into an expression of glee. The chauffeur stepped out to open the door for him. She couldn’t see the man already seated within, but she did see his hand reach forward for Drake to shake it. He did so and then disappeared into the vehicle as though he were being pulled into a black hole.
The driver, a light-haired man who didn’t look to be older than his late twenties, closed the door and looked toward the house—looked directly at her, she thought. It made her self-conscious, as if she had been caught snooping or something. She dropped the curtain and pulled back, her heart racing.
She gazed out again as the limousine backed out of the driveway and sped off. Then she stepped away from the window.
“Daddy!” Debbie cried from the top of the stairway.
Cynthia felt stunned by the morning’s events. For a moment she just stood there, indecisive, overwhelmed, not sure where to go or what to do.
“Daddy!” Debbie called again.
“I’m coming, honey,” she replied.
“I want Daddy,” Debbie cried.
“I know,” she muttered, and she turned to go to her. Suddenly she stopped in her tracks and spun around, realizing the most shocking thing of all.
Drake had left for the weekend with his daughter sick and his son upset. And he hadn’t even told her where he would be!
Cynthia heard the musical sound of Richie’s jeep horn and she sighed with relief. He had a knack for arriving at the appropriate time, Cynthia thought.
Richie had the kind of easygoing, happy-go-lucky personality that made him a welcome guest no matter when he arrived. He took after their father’s side of the family: tall, with light brown hair he kept in a straight wave over his forehead. He had a slim build, muscular and athletic. He was quiet and shy, but much less so when it came to his niece and nephew. Actually, Richie had always gotten along better with children than he had with other adults.
If there was such a thing as chemistry, it flowed between her son and her brother, Cynthia thought.
She used to fear that Drake would become jealous of Stuart’s affection for Richie, but he seemed to get just as much a kick out of it as she did. Sometimes the three of them, with Debbie sitting on the sidelines watching, would practice baseball or basketball, each giving Stuart the benefit of his experience.
Debbie had withdrawn into a dismal sulk when Cynthia had told her Drake had to leave before coming in to see her. She wouldn’t eat; she even refused the tea at first, drinking it only when Cynthia threatened to take her to the doctor and maybe the hospital. Stuart remained in his room, refusing to come out for breakfast. He lay in his bed, his face pressed against the pillow, and continued to brood. The morning had hardly begun, and Cynthia already felt exhausted.
When she gazed at herself in the mirror she saw that the slight wrinkles and lines that had disappeared after her Youth Hold treatment were returning. So much for the wonder of that, she thought. Drake had been right: There was no protection against the consequences of aggravation. It sped up the aging process. Maybe she should have joined him at his workshop.
Anyway, reinforcements had arrived, she thought, and she went to greet her brother, expecting Stuart to be right behind her. But her son’s depression and disappointment was deeply set. He remained in his room.
“What’s doin’?” Richie asked as she stood waiting in the doorway. He moved in his casual gait, his nonchalance and innocence welcome. He saw the way her eyes watered and stopped. “Something wrong?”
“Oh, Richie,” she said, and then she couldn’t help herself. She burst into tears.
Any show of emotion embarrassed her brother. He looked away as if he had been distracted by something and waited for her to get hold of herself. She sucked in her breath and wiped her eyes.
“What happened?” Richie asked. She knew he already regretted having stopped by, but if there was anyone she would confide in, it would be Richie, even before she would call her mother or father. Both her parents hated to see anyone cry and had no tolerance for it even if their own children were doing the crying.
Cynthia and her brother had been brought up to believe that emotions were personal; family problems were not to be shared and displayed. This infatuation America was having with exposure, spouting forth your most intimate difficulties on television talk shows or revealing all in magazine interviews, was obscene as far as Cynthia’s parents were concerned. Cynthia recalled having a difficult time getting her mother to discuss intimate female questions. Sex was something that you discovered and learned about through some kind of osmosis or instinct. In fact, her mother was a devout believer in the power of instinct. She had a favorite response when Cynthia did ask intimate questions and pursued her stubbornly for an answer.
“You’ll know,” she would finally say. “You’ll just know.”
Richie wore their mother’s expression of fear. What was she about to lay on him?
“It’s Drake,” she finally said. “Something’s wrong with him.”
“Oh.” He looked relieved. “Did he go to the doctor?”
“No. It’s not that kind of wrong. He’s acting peculiar.” Richie started to smile. Then she spilled it all in a staccato manner: “He quit his job, took a new position with a completely different kind of firm, met new people, went to dinner in New York last night and didn’t come home until late, and left this morning to go to a weekend workshop without telling me where he would be. And Debbie’s sick,” she added. That seemed to be the only thing Richie heard.
“Debbie’s sick?”
“She has stomach flu. He didn’t even say good-bye to her, and she won’t eat anything, not even a piece of toast.”
Richie nodded. This was something he could deal with.
“I’ll go see her, see what I can do. Where’s Stuart?”
“In his room, sulking because we can’t chaperon his party tomorrow night.”
“Party?” Richie smirked. “He’s having a party?”
“His class. Remember he’s class president?”
“Oh, yeah.” He laughed. “Drake and I were kidding him about that.”
“Well, he’s not laughing now,” she said, folding her arms under her bosom. “Did you hear the other stuff? Drake quit his job with Burke-Thompson.”
“Who’s he with now?”
“A cosmetics company, Leon Enterprises. He sells skin cream,” she said disparagingly. Richie’s eyes widened. He nodded slowly.
“Better pay?”
“Yes. A lot better,” she confessed.
“Well, he often complained about his old firm, about not getting the promotions he thought he deserved,” Richie reminded her.
“I know, but—”
“What’s this workshop?”
“I don’t know,” she said, grabbing onto that. “It’s in Florida. He’s flying down there on the company’s private jet.”
“No kidding?” Richie looked impressed. This wasn’t what she had intended, she thought.
“He rushed out of here without telling me exactly where he’s going!”
“He’s probably just excited. He’ll realize he didn’t tell you and call you later. He’ll call to see about Debbie anyway, right?”
“I hope so,” she said. “At least he said he would.”
“So?”
She looked at her brother. He had the same laugh lines around his eyes that had made their father so handsome. And just like their father, Richie had a way of making what seemed to be a large crisis insignificant in moments. She racked her brain to find reasons why this wasn’t insignificant. She looked up at the basketball net.
“Drake couldn’t sleep last night. I woke up at three in the morning and heard him out here. Do you know what he was doing? He was playing basketball! At three in the morning!”
“Really?” Richie’s smile widened. “What did he say?”
“He was restless and couldn’t sleep.”
Richie shrugged.
“I’ve gotten up and watched television. Once I took a fast walk around the block. Things get you riled up,” he explained without hinting at what those things could be. Cynthia surmised quickly that it had to do with his sex life. Her brother had been hurt badly by his first serious relationship. He had been going with a girl from his high school days, and they were at the point where they were talking marriage when he found out she had been unfaithful. And more than once!
The result was that he became even more timid and very cynical. He had dates, but when they started to become serious he usually backtracked. She thought some of the girls he drove away would have made him fine wives.
“He’s different, Richie,” she insisted. “He’s just different.”
“Hey, it’s not easy to quit a job you’ve had for so long and start somewhere new, even if you’re going to make a helluva lot more money. He’s probably very nervous and just doing weird things because of that. Every time I get disgusted with what I’m doing and think about doing something new I get the shakes,” he admitted. She looked at him with interest. “So forget about it,” he advised quickly. “After a while, when he gets used to what he’s doing, he’ll be his old self. Let me see Debbie,” he added quickly, and he moved toward the stairs.
Maybe he was right, she thought. Richie was shy, and Richie was set in his ways, but he was strong, too, and very calming. She gazed down the road in the direction Drake had gone and nodded. Richie was right, she concluded. Drake will settle down, and things will get back on track. When you’re as deeply in love and as committed to each other and family as she and Drake were, things had to work out.
Drake took his seat next to Paul Stoddard in the Learjet and fastened his seat belt. When he heard the engines start he looked about the otherwise empty plane with surprise.
“Are we the only ones going?”
“What?” Paul looked up as if he had just noticed that they were on a plane that was preparing for a takeoff. “Oh, yes. No one else this trip.”
A stewardess who looked barely twenty, if that, approached them. She had a vibrant, bright smile and radiant hazel eyes set in a fair-skinned, freckled face. Her auburn hair was brushed neatly down around her shoulders. She had a freshness about her that made him envision a cool, clear spring.
“Good morning,” she said. “Can I get you both a cup of coffee?”
“Just black for me,” Paul said quickly.
“Me, too.” Drake hadn’t gotten used to drinking coffee black yet, but he was working on it.
The stewardess directed her buoyant smile only at him, and he felt himself warm under the glow. He watched her move back down the aisle, her light blue uniform clinging so tightly to her hips that he could actually see the muscles in her buttocks flex and relax as she took her steps. The sexual energy he had woken with that morning was revived. It quickened his breath and brought a flush to his face. He hadn’t felt so vigorous since he was . . . sixteen, he thought.
Just after the plane took off and the pilot reached his cruising altitude she brought them their coffee.
“Nice-looking girl,” Drake remarked when she returned to her station up front.
Paul winked.
“She’ll be at the compound. Layover,” he added, smiling slyly.
“I’m a happily married man,” Drake said, although he still smiled and watched the stewardess move about.
“I was happily married, too,” Paul replied, but so sharply Drake had to turn to him.
“I’m sorry; I forgot.”
Paul shrugged.
“Nothing to be sorry about. You learn to go on with your life. What’s the other choice?” he asked rhetorically. Drake nodded. Paul’s hedonistic smile returned. “Let’s just concentrate on what awaits us at the compound.”
It wasn’t until they landed and were driven to the compound in another stretch limousine that Drake understood why Paul referred to it as a compound. Mr. Leon’s property was located a dozen or so miles off I-95. They headed away from the ocean and traveled through Everglades country. Suddenly they came to a clear field. Drake knew they had reached the Leon property because a sign on a fence clearly warned intruders that the fence was electrified. The chain-link barricade topped with strands of barbed wire seemed to run on for miles.
“That’s the factory where Youth Hold is made.” Paul pointed to a long gray stone building. A macadam roadway snaked around the building that looked to Drake like a long bomb shelter. There were no windows in the building. There was an entry on the side, and apparently a loading dock in the rear.
About a thousand yards from the gray building, however, were a dozen or so small cottages constructed in a half circle. They were all quaint little structures in white stucco with red tile roofs. The grounds bloomed with colorful flowers and hedges and palm trees. Every half dozen yards or so there was another fountain spouting crystal-clear water that glittered in the noonday sun.
“What are those cottages?” Drake asked.
“Guest houses,” Paul replied dryly. “But you will be staying in the mansion.”
And mansion it was, Drake thought as they drew closer to the main gate. The sprawling hacienda could be classified as nothing less. It seemed to go on forever, with porticos and patios and atriums. At least ten men worked the grounds, weeding and feeding the plants and flowers.
“It looks like a small castle.”
Paul nodded. Drake just caught a glimpse of the pool and patio behind the house, but off to the left were the tennis courts, a large gazebo, and what looked like a miniature botanical garden. As the limousine continued Drake spotted the armed guards and Dobermans patrolling in pairs. In such a pretty, colorful, and peaceful setting they were conspicuous and looked incongruous.
The limousine wound around the highway and turned into the long driveway before stopping at the main gate. The security guard shot out of the booth. The driver lowered his window, and the guard gazed in at him and then moved down the length of the car to look at Drake and Paul. Paul lowered his window.
“Hello, Mr. Stoddard,” the guard said. “Is this your guest?”
“Yes,” Paul said. Drake thought he looked nervous, as if there was a chance they wouldn’t be admitted or something. The guard stared intently at Drake for a moment. He smiled back, but the guard’s expression remained intense; his eyes, although clear, were a cold green, scrutinizing. Drake thought the man looked seasoned beyond his years. There was a toughness that didn’t go with the light hair and fair skin.
The guard nodded and turned toward the gate. It opened, and the limousine continued on.
“Why all the security?” Drake asked.
Paul laughed.
“Can’t you just imagine how many other companies would like to get their hands on our formula? Industrial espionage is worse than political espionage,” he added.
