Vortex by Catherine Coulter

Mia

Beacon Hill

Wednesday, early afternoon

Mia pulled her bright red wool coat close, worked her hands into her snug leather gloves, smashed her red knit cap over her head, and walked into the stiff wind the quarter mile from Pamela Raines Barrett’s digs to Juliet Ash Calley’s family home. Kali had found out Juliet wasn’t currently living in her small cottage near the Harvard campus; she’d moved back to her family home to tend to her ill mother. Milo had been enthusiastic about Mia seeing Juliet, the former fiancée. He’d given her his shark smile, waggled his thick salt-and-pepper eyebrows, and said out of the blue, “She’s yet another person with three names. If your family is worth a billion dollars, it’s an unwritten law you have three names or you get booted out of the club. Don’t even think about using that bit, Briscoe. I think she’ll see you. She’s used to reporters interviewing her about her piano playing. I remember Jim Perry of the Boston Globe interviewed Juliet Calley for us, wrote a piece about her performance when he heard her play Ravel in Boston. Said it nearly made him weep.”

Mia lowered her head when a gust of frigid air hit her full in the face. Still, lots of people were out and about, with places to go; nothing could keep them inside, just like New Yorkers.

She stopped in front of a stately early-nineteenth-century mansion, mellow gray stone rising above iron gates covered with acres of ivy. She double-checked the address, pressed the button beside the gate, identified herself to the unknown man whose deep disembodied voice was loud and clear. The gate slowly swung inward. She walked into a wonderland along an old meandering flagstone path through an elaborate garden, hibernating now, ah, but come spring, it would be glorious. There were only hushed sounds of traffic, but nothing else, outside the iron gate. Mia heard yew bushes whispering in the wind, heard the arms of tree branches moaning as the wind swayed them back and forth. The house rose three stories, with ten chimney stacks—she had to count them, couldn’t stop herself. The ivy didn’t grow wild up the sides of the house; it was perfectly trimmed around the large windows and the large dark gray front door.

Mia banged the antique lion’s head, heard skipping footsteps coming downstairs. The large door opened and Juliet Ash Calley herself appeared. An older man dressed in a beautiful black suit materialized behind her. She turned to him. “I’ll see to Ms. Briscoe, Weldon, thank you.”

A butler. Well, of course.

Weldon nodded his iron-gray head and melted away.

Juliet Ash Calley held out a competent hand with long tapered fingers, short buffed nails, and shook Mia’s gloved one. “I’m Juliet Calley and you’re Mia Briscoe, right?”

Mia gave her a warm smile, difficult because her face was so cold.

“Come in, come in, quickly, before you’re frozen to the bone.”

Mia stepped inside and Juliet quickly closed the front door, flipped the dead bolt, and turned, shivered. “I think Admiral Perry would be at home here today. Mother’s sleeping, so your timing is perfect. I admit I was surprised to hear a reporter wanted to speak to me, and not about music but about Alex Harrington. I haven’t been part of his life for over two years now. Let me take your coat.”

Juliet hung Mia’s winter gear on an old-fashioned coat-tree, and said, “Come into the living room and we can hunker down in front of the fire Weldon always lights for me when I practice.”

Mia followed Juliet Ash Calley out of the dim entrance hall and into a large living room filled with extraordinary light even on this grim March day. Old and gracious was Mia’s impression of the large rectangular room, all its English antiques looking settled and comfortable, everything in the room a part of the whole. A twelve-foot ceiling made the room seem even more spacious. The walls were painted a soft cream, and pale-blue-patterned wallpaper framed the front bow windows. But the focal point was the shiny black eleven-foot Steinway grand piano. Mia said, “I’ve listened to some of your recordings. I remember sitting back, closing my eyes, and letting your amazing Scarlatti melt away every bit of stress. I got right back to work, whistling.” Mia pointed at the beautiful instrument. “You grew up with this Steinway?”

“Yes. It was originally my grandmother’s. She was an amazing musician, but she didn’t wish to pursue a career. Now the piano is mine.”

“And your mom?”

“My mom had lessons, but she always said they didn’t take and my grandmother nodded, sadly. I’ve always found talent genes to be very unpredictable. Believe me, I’m grateful they came together for me.”

Mia waved her hand around the living room. “There’s such peace in this room. Do you think you’ll live here someday?”

Juliet blinked, cocked her head. “I haven’t thought about it. It’s my parents’ house. My grandparents gave it to them when they moved to Florida ten years ago. Honestly, I can’t imagine my folks ever being gone. As to this house, it has their stamp on it. For me, it’s a bit too opulent.” She waved Mia to a red velvet Victorian love seat with graceful scrolled arms. Juliet poured a cup of tea from a whimsical teapot and placed a cup in front of Mia. “Oolong. I hope you like it. It’s my early afternoon treat.”

Mia thanked her, took a sip, and nearly swooned. Hot and pungent, just what she needed. “Thank you. It’s delicious.”

Juliet nodded and sat across from Mia, the light from the bow windows full on her face.

For the first time, Mia really looked at Juliet Ash Calley. She was riveted. Of course she’d seen her photos, but the woman in person was . . . Mia, the wordsmith, could only come up with—drop-dead gorgeous. Juliet was blessed with skin like porcelain, eyes so pale a blue they were almost silver, and absurdly long lashes, even darker than her hair. She was several years older than Mia, not as model thin as Pamela; that is, no bones were showing. She looked fit and strong in dark blue sweats, the jacket open to a white silk cami, soft black ballet slippers on her feet. Her dark brown hair was pulled back into a thick ponytail and fastened with a pink poof ball, an oddly charming effect. Mia said without hesitation, “Forgive me for staring, but you are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life. Mr. Harrington must have thought he’d died and gone to heaven when he laid eyes on you.”

Juliet blinked, reared back in her chair. “What? Oh, well, thank you, but I strongly doubt that was Alex’s reaction when he first saw me. I was about six years old, missing a front tooth, wore tight braids, and pink tights on my skinny legs.”

Mia said, smiling, “I like the visual.”

Juliet said, “Of course I googled you, Ms. Briscoe. I realized I’d read some of your Guardian articles that appeared in the Boston Globe. I came away thinking you’re bright and a good writer. You’re not about doing political hatchet jobs or pushing an agenda, and that’s refreshing in these contentious times. That’s why I was fine with seeing you.

“I don’t suppose you’d like to talk about my mother’s big charity bash for breast cancer research next Friday?” she continued, a twinkle in her eyes. “Or perhaps my father’s most recent trade talks with Indonesia?” She laughed, then sighed. “I know you want to talk to me about Alex Harrington and his run for mayor of New York City. But I really have little that’s interesting or pertinent to say to you or your readers about him. In short, I’m old news, two-year-old old news to be exact.”

Mia kept her voice smooth, matter-of-fact. “Still, you were part of the fabric of his life, you knew him very well indeed, Ms. Calley. You were slated to marry him.”

Mia saw a flash of distress on her beautiful face before she slowly nodded. “Well, yes, of course. Very well, Ms. Briscoe, but please realize whatever I might say about Alex wouldn’t be of much interest to the voters of New York City. I don’t know much of anything about his politics, or what he advocates.”

Mia didn’t say it, but she didn’t care at all what this woman thought of Alex Harrington’s politics; she wanted to know why their engagement had been called off. She’d bet her prized Indian Head nickel Juliet was the one who’d called a halt. The question was why. Mia didn’t take her tablet out; she simply leaned forward and looked directly at Juliet. “I accept that voters wouldn’t be much interested in your opinions of Mr. Harrington’s political stands. I’d guess you probably don’t care what he thinks about much of anything these days. I would find it odd if you did.”

A forced smile from Juliet. “Yes, you’re quite right about that. Actually, I rarely give him a thought.”

She wasn’t a good liar, and this lie perched on the end of her perfect nose. Mia said, “I met Mr. Harrington at a fundraiser and interviewed him for a series of articles I’ve been assigned to write for the Guardian. I spoke to him yesterday. He was charming, which I suppose he’ll have to be to get many votes. He’s good-looking, tall, well built, seems to relate well to both men and women. In short, he’s got everything it takes to be a successful politician. So far as I know he’s been an athlete and an avid gamer, that he runs the New York branch of his family’s business. He seems like a man who’d appeal to would-be voters, at least to those voters not too far on the left or the right. What I’d like to know, Ms. Calley, is what you think of him as a person. Is he as admirable as he seems to be? Trustworthy? Knowing him as you do, would you vote for him?”

Hardly a pause, then Juliet said, her voice flat, “I imagine many people would say yes to that list and yes to voting for him.”

But you wouldn’t.Mia gave her a crooked grin. “Forgive me, I fear I’ve made him sound like a perfect pet dog.”

“I really can’t add to what you said, Ms. Briscoe.” Then the words burst out of her mouth. “Except if Alex were a dog, he’d be a vicious hunter.”

The words hung naked between them. Juliet opened her mouth, closed it. That’s right, Mia thought, saying any more would only make it worse. Mia said, “Could you tell me what you mean, exactly?”

Juliet shook her head, tried for a disarming smile, but she couldn’t pull it off. She said finally, “What I meant was, when Alex is set on a course of action, absolutely nothing will stop him. He’ll be a dogged opponent, forgive the pun, do anything he sees necessary to get what he wants, as the other candidates for mayor of New York City will soon discover.”

It was a nice save, as far as it went. “I imagine those qualities might make for a strong candidate for mayor, but not so attractive in a husband?”

“Yes, those qualities did have something to do with our breaking up, yes.”

Mia waited, but Juliet said nothing more. All right, she’d move along for the moment. “What do you think of Mr. Harrington’s current fiancée, Pamela Raines Barrett?”

Juliet said without hesitation, “For as long as I can remember, Pammie’s family has been front and center on the political stage, ever since her uncle, Wilson Carlson Barrett, was governor. Even her mother, Marilyn, was an elected judge. I would say without reservation Pamela and Alex are perfect for each other.”

Mia wasn’t deaf to what she’d left unspoken. She throttled back. “I understand you and Ms. Barrett were once very good friends and you were sent to England together for school. Tell me about it.” She pulled out her tablet, sat poised.

Juliet eased, Mia saw it. “Yes, when we were sixteen Pammie and I were sent to England, near Bath, to a posh girls’ school. We are very different people, but as teenagers together in a foreign country, we did well together, we had each other’s backs. I don’t know why Pammie’s parents agreed to England—it was always cold and rained incessantly—but my parents wanted me to study with a famous piano teacher.

“I remember the day I began to understand Pammie—no, she’s Pamela now—and why I think she’s perfect for Alex. We were visiting Westminster Abbey on a day trip. She didn’t want to move away from Queen Victoria’s tomb. She told me even though she couldn’t be a queen and reign over a country until she died, and the chances of her becoming president were slim to none, she’d decided to make do with being First Lady. I believed her. I still do.”

She paused a moment. “She and I never viewed the world in the same way. As I said, we did well together away from home, only the two of us, but when we came home things changed; we became adults and more or less went our separate ways. I threw myself into becoming a concert pianist and Pamela tried many things, but it was always the local political scene that drew her, and, of course, interior design. Her first husband, Andrew Schlosser, was a very nice man who ran for governor and lost in the primary. She divorced him shortly after that.”

“Because he couldn’t give her what she wanted?”

“I don’t know. I did ask her once what issues she believed in politically. She didn’t give me an answer, only said most of it was nonsense, male and female posturing, and the only important thing for most politicians was power, not the issues they talked about, that saying what voters wanted to hear was the only way to get elected and gain power. She dated a number of politicians, but she cut them all loose. It got to be a joke in our group, like, who’s Pamela auditioning now?”

Mia said, “I wonder if it burned her when her best teenage girlfriend hooked the big prize—Alex Harrington?”

Juliet said quickly, too quickly, “I never thought about it that way, and I don’t want to know. Honestly? I wish her the best of luck.”

Mia said, “And now she might become first lady of New York City.”

“She might. And for Pamela, New York is a lovely stepping-stone. She wants to be First Lady of the United States.” Juliet actually smiled.

“There’s many a long mile from Mr. Harrington being mayor of New York City to being the president of the United States.”

“That’s certainly true, but I don’t doubt for a minute Pammie will relish every step to Washington.”

Mia set down her tablet. “Off the record. May I ask how you and Mr. Harrington got together?”

“When I attended Juilliard, I lived with another musician, a violinist, but that didn’t work out, and I moved back to Boston. The same old group was still here, hanging out together, at parties, movies, dinners. It was a comfortable routine, always there for me after I practiced or performed, always a welcome break.”

“And then Alex?”

“Yes, and then Alex. It started at a clambake in Nantucket.”

“He was with several women over the years, but never married.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Just like Kent Harper never did?”

Juliet flinched—Mia saw it—then she slowly nodded. “Yes, very much like Kent.”

“And the two of you didn’t realize you weren’t suited until only three weeks before the wedding?”

Mia saw Juliet was used to this question. She eased, gave an elegant shrug, trotted out her canned response. “Like many women, I suppose I was all wrapped up in the excitement. It was a whirlwind time, so much to be done even with a wedding planner, who, I might add, would have made an excellent Nazi general. My parents were ecstatic, his parents were ecstatic, all our friends approved. We finally realized we’d simply dived into the deep end, both of us ignoring our real feelings, not thinking objectively.” She looked down at her tightly folded hands, and the words spurted out of her mouth. “And there was Kent.”