Jane had no trouble gathering information on Bill Andrews’s first wife. Kay Parker was all over the society pages for the years between her coming-out and her tragic death. As Queen of the Cotillion, she was photographed with an honor guard of West Point cadets, their swords drawn to protect her virtue. At Vassar, she chaired committees that fed the hungry and bought cows for African villages. Next came her working career as a junior editor for a women’s fashion magazine and then as a features reporter for NBC in New York. She had taken a six-month leave of absence to ride with the U.S. equestrian team and scored a few points in international competitions. All that was before her twenty-fourth birthday.
When she moved actively into society, there was immediate speculation of marriage to any number of eligible bachelors. The candidates included the leading man in a Broadway musical who escorted her to the Tony Awards, the great-grandson of a man who had owned railroads and stashed away the profits, a land baron who was developing a thirty-mile stretch of the New Jersey coast, and the backup quarterback of the New York Giants. A corporate executive, no matter how successful, wouldn’t stand a chance. Kay Parker was far beyond anyone who earned his money in trade.
Society was stunned when she turned up in Saint-Tropez on the arm of William Andrews. At the time, he was considered “impolite,” a general term that explained his casual attire, frequently unkempt appearance, passion for loud motorcycles and speedboats, and business aggressiveness. He was also a regular on the financial pages, making amounts of money that were blatantly obscene to those who thought no one should have as much money as they did. His betters smirked when he used the wrong fork and shook their heads when he dozed at the opera. The thought of their princess being manhandled by someone who bought his clothes off a plain pipe rack sent shivers through the ladies and raised harrumphs among the men.
The supermarket tabloids claimed, in sequence, that they were already married, that he was impotent, and that she was pregnant and abandoned. When they were guests of an aging French film actress, a grainy photo of the three of them ran under the headline MéNAGE à TROIS. One day William and Kay were suffering a heartbreaking separation, the next they were into kinky sex, and a day later they were both prisoners of a drug habit. New York social doyens held their noses as if the young couple had been wallowing in a barrel of fish.
But then they married in a small church on Sardinia and honeymooned across the Continent. They were houseguests of the reigning Rothschild, lunched with the queen of Denmark, and had an audience with the pope. They returned to an apartment that took up the top two floors of a building with a view of Central Park, and bought a weekend place in western New Jersey with thirty rooms and paddocks for twenty horses. The tabloids lost interest, but the society pages began to see the young couple in a more favorable light. When the Prince of Wales borrowed their house for his attendants and his polo ponies, they rocketed back to status.
Kay proved to be thoroughly domesticated. She took her position in the proper charities and lavished money on the arts. When her children came, she expanded her interests into children’ hospitals and headed committees to send doctors and medical supplies abroad. She immersed herself in youth activities, bringing 4-H to midtown Manhattan and sponsoring Scout troops that regularly hiked in the park.
Jane found her picture everywhere. She was in jodhpurs next to a champion jumper, in a full-length gown of pearls for the Philharmonic, on skis with her children at Aspen, in a stylish suit on the podium at a political convention, in camping attire at a Girl Scout jamboree. Then there was her involvement in the Andrews business affairs. She was by her husband’s side at a satellite launching in French Guiana, dedicating an up-link at the palace in Bahrain, hosting a panel of journalists in Jerusalem, and frolicking with the casts of television sitcoms. She was even photographed in a Red Sox uniform when Andrews Global Network won the rights to broadcast the team’s games in Latin America. It seemed that in a typical week Kay Parker had spent more time in front of a camera than Jane generally spent at her desk.
Despite their variety, all the photos were flattering. Kay had high, well-defined cheekbones that made her eyes seem sultry and her smile mysterious. Either she was an expert in cosmetics or she had a makeup artist living with her, because her complexion was flawless. Her hair seemed shimmering ebony that simply grew into a stylist’s creation. Her clothes, even those she wore for camping, were on the cutting edge—the latest fashions before they became commonplace. Her figure was perfectly shaped—a model but with a real butt and high breasts. She had somehow remained thin even during her pregnancies.
As she plowed through her research and read the countless articles, Jane began to feel clammy. It was a symptom of the fear that was growing within her, changing her suspicions of inadequacy to stark terror. William Andrews had suggested that there was a hole in his life, but it was actually more like a canyon. Parker had painted his life’s canvas with a wide brush. When she had fallen, she had gone right through the painting, tearing away everything but the flimsy frame.
Was that what Bill meant when he said he wanted to know her better? Was he measuring her for a new painting? Good God, it would take a fair-size harem to fill Kay Parker’s shoes. An ordinary woman would be doomed to failure.
As she scanned back through the electronic clippings, Jane couldn’t find one role that she could fill. The skills of a makeup artist? In the mornings she looked as if she had just gotten out of bed, and in the evenings as if she was ready to go back. Her fashion flair? Her closet was full of quality clothes that would be out of style long before they wore out. Dinner with the Prince of Wales? She probably wouldn’t know how to attack the place setting. Polo ponies? She got sick on the merry-go-round. And skiing in Aspen? They could save time by setting her leg before she got on the lift.
Jane was particularly shaken by the shots of Kay smiling out through the flap of a tent with half a dozen Girl Scouts behind her. Even when she was a teenager Jane had thought that young women were vain and spiteful, and the thought of spending a week in a tent full of blossoming adolescents was absolutely terrifying. How had Kay managed to make it look like one of life’s joys?
She still had her printouts scattered around her and the photo of the happy campers up on the screen when William Andrews’s phone call came through. “It’s all set,” he announced with genuine enthusiasm. “The house out in White Marsh is open, and the kids are coming for the weekend. You can make it, can’t you?” She hesitated a bit too long. “Jane! Is something wrong?”
“No, no. Everything is perfect. I’ve been looking forward to it.”
“Great! Can you cut out early on Friday? I can pick you up in a helicopter at Westchester or Sikorsky. The trip is only an hour.”
“I’ll have to ask my boss. He doesn’t like his people starting the weekend early.”
“Jane, I am the boss!”
“No,” she answered. “Unless you want me to act like one of your staff.”
“Oh God, no. I don’t want you to act like anything.”
Not even like Kay Parker, she thought. “I’ll talk to Roscoe. But I won’t use your name. It wouldn’t be fair.”
“Right,” he agreed. “It looks like I’d better start sucking up to Roscoe.”