Fog consumes Newport from two directions. Sometimes it begins by nibbling at the southern shore of Aquidneck Island, munching its way northward at a leisurely pace until the pretty little City by the Sea disappears lock, stock, and harbor. And sometimes the fog hovers over the city itself, sampling the taller parts: the towers of the Newport Bridge; an occasional smokestack here and there; the signal tower on the Navy Base; and of course the Newport Hospital, built on Newport's most prominent hill. The fog which soon gobbled up Cindy's silver Mercedes was of the top-to-bottom variety; it had swallowed the red brick hospital first thing, making it appear even more ominous to those who had business there.
One of these was a thoroughly frightened seventeen-year old whose life, after the four-thirty a.m. phone call, would surely never be the same. At an hour when girls her age were deep into dreams about boys her age, Quinta Powers was pulling on a pair of battered jeans with shaking hands in the predawn quiet before the police arrived to take her to the hospital. At an hour when most girls her age were just becoming sleepily aware that today was Sunday, no school today, Quinta Powers was rocking back and forth in anguished suspense in the lounge chair outside the Intensive Care Unit, waiting for her father to be wheeled out of the operating room.
"She's alone? No one else?"
The nurse on duty nodded grimly.
"How did she get here? Surely she didn't have to drive."
"Lieutenant Halran and another cop went out to her house to pick her up. Apparently the patient's a widower with five daughters. This one's the youngest. Only one other still lives in Newport, and she's pregnant and due any minute. Take your choice," the nurse said wryly, aware that the orthopedic surgeon would rather be anywhere on the planet than where he was right now.
"Well, hell. No grandparents? Neighbors?"
"Uh-uh. It was the patient's decision. Apparently he's worried about the pregnant daughter; there's a history of miscarriages in the family. Though how he had the energy to worry …. Anyway, the girl's been doing pretty well. It's only since she knows the operation's over that she's started to crumble."
Fred Greene was a case-hardened veteran of many hundreds of operations, most of them successful. He had given his prognoses—good, bad, and uncertain—to thousands of relatives and survivors of his patients. But never, to his recollection, had he had to face a pretty teenager wide-eyed with fear and all, all alone. There was far too much of Charles Dickens in it, and it filled him with loathing for the task before him. Hastily he checked his scrub suit for tell-tale traces of blood—if he'd left his surgical gown on, the girl might have passed out in horror—and approached her.
"Miss Powers? Er—Quinta?" A peculiar name, he thought; he couldn't have got it right.
"Yessir." She jumped up, an athletic, tallish girl about to explode with tension. Her hazel eyes were fastened on his face with an intensity that wilted his resolve to look upbeat.
"I'm Dr. Greene. Quinta, I'm sure you realize that your father has been very seriously injured." He hastened on with the good news part: "If it weren't for the dog he was holding, he might easily have been killed; the poor dog, well, absorbed the blow somewhat."
"Yes?"
It was a signal, he thought, to continue at his own peril. Her eyes never left him, and he felt, more than ever before, like a demi-god who'd screwed up. There was nothing further anyone could do—he knew that. But how in the name of Hippocrates could he convince her of that? He plowed stoically ahead through the bad news. "When your father was brought in, he had a fracture dislocation of the spine," he said carefully. "The exact location was D-12 on L-1, but you don't care about that."
"But I do care, I care about every last bit. 'Fracture dislocation... D-12 on L-1,'" she repeated fiercely, memorizing the meaningless labels.
Oh Christ, she's going to want to be adult about it. "We had to operate immediately to reduce the pressure of the piece of bone pressing on the nerves," he continued slowly. "We hope that by reducing the pressure, your father will recover completely."
"From the fracture dislocation?" she said with touching naïveté.
"Well, yes. From the paralysis," he explained, unsure suddenly whether she understood what the danger even was.
"What ... paralysis?"
"From the dislocation, Quinta. Your father has no movement from his waist down."
She sucked in her breath slowly, quietly. Her large hazel eyes glazed over with tears; they welled behind the thick lower lashes with no more hope of staying back than overflowing reservoirs out west in spring. "My father can't walk?"
"Not when he was admitted; but we're hoping for the best, Quinta."
"But he has to walk; he has a boat," she argued, as if that would tip the balance of justice in her father's favor. "He has to get on the dock ... off the dock ... up to the boat's flying bridge .... You have to walk if you have a boat, one with a bridge especially," she repeated, still in shock.
"Quinta, you have to hope for the best. And you have to help your dad hope for the best. He's going to need you very much in the next few weeks. He'll be counting on you."
"I've failed him completely," she whispered in agony.
Puzzled, he said, "Nonsense! You seem to me very levelheaded, very intelligent. This is what you have to do: you have to stay calm and be optimistic. Can you do that, especially in front of your dad?"
She nodded. "If you could tell me," she said, taking a deep breath, "the worst case."
"The paralysis would be permanent, Quinta. But even then, if your father were very determined he could move around with leg braces and crutches." Very, very few were that determined, he might easily have added, but not to her.
Instead he said, "But let's take things one at a time. Right now I want you to go up to the coffee shop and get something to eat. Do you know where it is?"
"Yes. I was here before," she murmured, for the first time averting her eyes from his. "When my mother was ... ill ."
Best stay away from that, he thought. "All right then," he said briskly. "Do you have any money with you?"
Again she nodded. "But I'm not really hungry."
"Hunger has nothing to do with it. You have to be strong—for your father—and that's where food comes in, you know that. So get off to the snack shop and strengthen up." He tried a lame smile. "I'm going to call your brother-in-law." Whether the patient likes it or not, he added to himself.
"When can I see my dad?"
"Soon. But I gotta tell ya," he said lightly, "he isn't going to be much for small talk. Don't plan on discussing the theory of relativity or anything like that."
Quinta let him have a pale ghost of a smile, which nonetheless had a feisty sweetness in it. She picked up her canvas purse, slung it over her shoulder, and started out for the visitors' lounge. Then she stopped and turned around. "Thank you, Dr. Greene. I'm sorry I was such a baby."
"Oh, but you weren't," he said sincerely, shaking her hand.
"Yes, I was. But I'll get better. I just wasn't, you know, expecting ... this." Her voice broke and she turned and hurried toward the elevator.
****
Four days later, Alan Seton called a press conference. Dr. Frederick Greene couldn't come; he was busy operating on the fractured tibia that would pay the July mortgage on his overly large Victorian house. Quinta Powers couldn't come; she was dividing her time between her sister's house, where Jackie was overdue and in a perilous state, and Intensive Care, where her father lay broken and grieving. Cindy Seton couldn't come. She was dead, and besides, she was in Nevada, taking in the shows at the casinos while her lover fenced a few emeralds. Mrs. Cyril Hutley, shocked beyond expression by her protégé's suicide, certainly wouldn't come. She would have nothing further to do with the Setons. And she couldn't bear Alan Seton anyway; he was so hopelessly single-minded. Of all the principals in the Saturday night drama, in fact, only Mavis Moran had the leisure and the inclination to go and see what Alan Seton had to say for himself.
Not that the Newport National Guard Armory was empty. The historic granite building, which by tradition was converted to press headquarters for the duration of the America's Cup trials as well as the final races, was filled to overflowing. The media were there, naturally, and so was anyone else lucky enough to have wrangled a guest pass for the summer—crews and members of the four U.S. and seven foreign syndicates; local officials responsible for avoiding chaos whenever possible; and the usual smattering of politicians, crashers, and hangers-on.
This wasn't very fair to the residents of Newport—it was more or less their Armory, after all—but those who really cared could always tune in to the local radio station for a fairly complete broadcast. And since this press conference was not about the Aussies' secret winged keel; since it was not about which yacht club advised which measurer on what date; since it was about a juicy, scandalous piece of news that everyone could understand—most Newporters, and quite a few non-Newporters, did tune in to listen. There was no doubt about it: the combined events of the last few days had had everyone in Newport reeling.
The average townie shook his head and said, "It isn't right. Neil Powers is a good man who puts in long hours on the Christmas toy drive. For him to be run down by some damn socialite high on drugs just isn't right."
Society shook her head and said, "What a tragic pity. Cindy was pretty, charming, bright. If her parents had lived, who knows how high she might have flown? She might have bowed at the Palais Schwarzenberg. Fate was too cruel to her. First her parents' car crash, then this fellow wearing dark clothing on a dark road on a dark night. Too cruel."
The butler murmured to the housekeeper, "There'll be trouble if he's not reinstated. Never heard of such a thing, dismissing a man like Bob—never sick hardly in twelve years, steady as the day is long—and why? Because that security outfit fell flat on their faces and Mrs. Cyril Hutley was looking for a scapegoat, that's why."
The press, ecstatic over the bumper crop of stories, packed away hearty, cheap breakfasts at Handy Lunch and told one another gleefully, "Best Cup summer in a hundred and thirty-two years. A Cup assignment used to be about as exciting as watching paint dry, but damn if this isn't fun. This'll be the death blow to Alan Seton's campaign. Guaranteed. "
So far Mavis Moran had successfully avoided the media men who flocked to the waterfront like seagulls to dumpsters. She had given a report of the theft to the police, and then, after the silver Mercedes was discovered on Newport Bridge, she had given it again. She had been interviewed by the insurance company more than once, but to the media she had said not a word.
Now she stood quietly in the back of the crowd, dressed in flat sandals, nondescript khakis, and a cheap navy polo shirt. Her thick auburn hair was hidden under a visor-bandanna combination, and a pair of enormous light-adjusting glasses broke up the Celtic curves of her face. She had taken extreme care to hide the fading bruise on her chin under makeup, not so much out of vanity as from a sense of embarrassment that Delgado had landed such a clean punch. She was as nearly incognito as a woman with dazzling skin who stands five feet nine inches tall can be.
The magnified thump of a finger being tapped against a hot mike told Mavis that the press conference was about to begin. Boisterous exchanges died to excited chatter and finally faded to a subdued murmur as the Chairman of the U.S. Selection Committee made a few introductory remarks. Mavis scanned the hall and found six or seven of the Shadow crew gathered in a small knot near the front, looking glum.
Mavis knew what was coming, of course. So did just about everyone else in the Armory, but that didn't stop them—and her—from staring with unconcealed expectation at the dark-haired skipper who sat stonily behind the podium, about to read his statement.
"Mr. Chairman, members of the press, ladies and gentlemen," Alan Seton began in a voice resonant with self-control. "It must be obvious to most of you why I've called this press conference. Four days ago my wife, because of her involvement in a tragic accident, chose to ... take her own life. It came as a severe shock to me, and now I don't think I can summon the intense, total concentration needed to compete seriously for the right to defend the America's Cup."
An electric murmur generated through the crowd. Mavis couldn't see the crew any longer, but it took little imagination to picture the bowed heads, the inevitable sadness.
"I know that my superb crew, despite their deep sympathy for my situation, could nonetheless rally and turn in the flawless performance that has characterized their effort during the last fourteen months of constant, grueling practice. I know they can, but I am sorry to say, I simply ... cannot. And—at the risk of sounding arrogant—I'm the one who must steer the boat. It would be counterproductive, not only for me but for my crew, to continue on with a dispirited performance."
He was arrogant, Mavis thought, damned arrogant. But he was certainly right.
"The distractions," Seton explained, "are constant. There is the ongoing investigation into my wife's death, questions about her victimization in a recent jewel theft—"
Mavis winced and pulled the visor down further over her face. Did he have to be so blessed forthcoming? That was no one else's business.
"—and of course, questions about the terrible accident in which she has been proved to be involved. None of these questions will end soon," he said wearily, "and of course they should not, since the issues involved are great. In my own life there had been, up until last week, only one issue: whether the Shadow campaign would be successful in its attempt to win the right to defend the world's most sought-after trophy. But my life is not my own any longer," he added, and Mavis thought she saw pained surprise in his face, as though, seeing the avidly curious crowd before him, he was realizing it for the first time.
"I will now entertain questions from the press, and then, after today, I shall have no further comment."
Mavis was impressed. Questions from the press! They'd tear him apart. How naive, she wondered, can one man be?
There was a wild scramble among the reporters to be recognized. With a look of grim determination Seton acknowledged a short, slightly built reporter who was notorious for his aggressive questions.
"Alan," the reporter began, "isn't it true that your campaign was on its last legs financially? And that now would be an opportune time to withdraw in any event?"
For a moment Seton looked blank; if he had been warned to expect the question, he showed no sign of it. "It never occurred to me," he answered, "to withdraw for financial reasons. If I'd run completely out of money—which I did not—I'd simply expand the syndicate—which I saw no need to." He shifted his attention to another hand. "Yes?"
"What will happen to Shadow? Will you sell it?"
"I honestly haven't got that far," Seton admitted. "Obviously Shadow will be withdrawn from the competition. But whether she'll be stored until the next time, or be sold ... I don't know," he said tiredly.
"Mr. Seton," a girl reporter whose pretty face was bursting with teeth asked, "the talk is that your wife resisted your all-out effort to defend the Cup. Do you see an irony in the fact that now, at least, she's got her way?"
"No."
"Sir," came a twangy New England voice, "I write for the Marblehead Sentinel. I'm not a sportswriter, but I am keen on the sport. Now it seems t' me that comin' from English gentry as I understand you do, you can't have the same spirit behind your effort, the same sense of patriotism, if you don't mind my sayin' so, that might carry you over the rough spots such as now. Or do you see it different?" he asked amiably.
It would be hard to take offense at the New Englander, so typical in his distrust of things English. No doubt his ancestors had helped dump the tea into Boston Harbor. Seton smiled and said, "I think my credentials are pretty good, as a matter of fact. My grandfather, right off the boat from England, fell in love with a beautiful American and a beautiful country. He married her, ran a shipyard on the Connecticut shore, took over another one here in Newport for a while, had children, and put down roots. For decades he supported the America's Cup Races—and he didn't root for Sir Thomas Lipton and England even when a lot of Americans were doing it," Seton added with a grin. "Good enough?"
"Well, sir, it'll have to do." Clearly the New Englander thought the jury was still out on Alan's patriotism.
"Alan, Alan ... thank you. Around the waterfront, naturally, people are saying that you're afraid to continue taking on the formidable Dennis Conner head to head in the July Trials. Would you care to comment?"
A slow, ironic smile flickered over Seton's handsome face, and he answered blandly, "Dennis, Tom, John—they all scare the hell out of me." He let the laughter linger and then he said, "The Preliminary Trials in June are traditionally a period of shaking down between contenders. They're not only inconclusive, but maybe, well, just maybe all the cards aren't on the table yet. New sails, shifting the ballast around, possibly just getting braver and going for the throat at the starting line—any one of those can be a factor. It's early days yet; everyone has a chance to look formidable come August."
Mavis thought he was looking more relaxed, more comfortable. But it didn't last.
"Mr. Seton, getting back to the question of finances," a reporter began in a friendly, confidential voice, "it's no secret, of course, that your wife came from a wealthy family—"
"My wife's money is held in trust and has nothing to do with me," Seton answered abruptly, anticipating the rest of the question.
Mavis recognized the slimy little worm who posed the next query; he wrote for the yellowest journal of all. Iggy, as he was appropriately named, had pursued Mavis relentlessly through the first years of her marriage, reasoning that when a twenty-six-year-old heiress of great wealth marries a fifty-nine-year-old entrepreneur of even greater wealth, there must be lewd play somewhere. Unfortunately for him, Mavis never wandered—never even thought of straying—from her obstinate but interesting husband, and contented marriages make dull copy.
Iggy, who knew absolutely nothing about sailing but everything about Cindy's set, said in an insinuating, district attorney voice, "Isn't it a fact that in the handbag Mrs. Seton left behind there were found an impressive variety of uppers—just about every imaginable amphetamine, in fact? Wasn't there also a vial of white powder? Is there any reason for us to believe that these drugs were available exclusively to Mrs. Seton?"
Don't answer him, Mavis pleaded silently. It was a variation of the old, "Do you beat your wife every day?" question. There was no safe answer.
"What are you getting at?" Seton asked bluntly, as a dark, angry look settled on his brow.
"Well, just this: Where there's smoke there's usually fire. Virtually every sport—the venerable Olympics included—has been tainted by otherwise proud athletes stooping to drugs to win the game."
Iggy had the floor. No one had ever asked about drugs at an America's Cup press conference before, but he didn't know that, and so probably he was chalking up the stunned silence to his bold eloquence. "My question, Captain, is: can you guarantee that your crew—who, after all, lived under the same roof as your wife in the usual communal arrangement—can you guarantee that your crew does not use drugs of any kind?" His voice was filled with sudden, righteous indignation.
Alan Seton stared at Iggy for a long, long moment. People exchanged glances. Iggy looked defiant but increasingly uncomfortable. Finally, in a low voice Seton said, "I want to be scrupulously correct in answering your question. One of my crew, the bow man, gouged his shin jibing the spinnaker last week. A row of stitches was necessary, and he was prescribed a mild painkiller. We've had our share of injuries in the last year; we've had our share of prescriptions. As for your implication—"
Seton's tanned, handsome face flushed an even darker shade and he made a move to stand up, but his navigator Mat Belisma gave a little lurch of his own, obviously preparing to restrain Seton if necessary.
"Right," Seton muttered, and aloud he said, "As for your implication, I think it stinks, mister. You'd like to know where those kids get their energy and stamina? On Shadow the sandwiches are an inch thick with meat and the coolers are loaded with apples, Milky Ways, and cookies. Our diet is absolutely American, a combination of protein and junk food. The only difference is, since the crewmen are built like brick shi—built so solidly," he corrected himself, "they eat three times as much as the average American. They work three times as hard as most, including me, and they're three times more disciplined than most. Including me. Why do they do it? Ask them. Just don't insult them asking how they do it. They're motivated in ways you could never understand."
Applause. The room rippled, then swelled with it. It wasn't for the put-down of Iggy, although there was some of that; and it wasn't for the all-American crew, although there was some of that too. It was for Alan Seton, who symbolized to many in the room the finest kind of America's Cup skipper: a man of integrity who cared intensely about his crew and—it was corny to say so out loud, and that was why they were applauding—cared about the tradition of the America's Cup itself. There was absolutely nothing to be gained financially from his quest. He was not a sail maker or a yacht designer who could look forward to a flood of new business if he succeeded. Nor was he even an exceedingly wealthy and thrill-seeking elitist. He had added to the very respectable but not blinding fortune he'd inherited by speculating in California real estate, and he'd been spending it hand over fist in an effort to defend the America's Cup for the United States. Lots of people in the audience thought that he was crazy, but the dreamers, the eternally questing, they understood. And applauded.
Grudgingly, Mavis was applauding too, because his effort really had been heroic. Her personal feeling about Alan Seton was that he had a mountainous ego and the inevitable fatal flaw: he lacked the necessary cynicism to rise above the pressures of the media, the hangers-on, the social scene. Out on the water he was a marvel. He had the sure, quick instincts and inspired brilliance necessary to fight and win what is essentially a punishing duel between two yachts. But ashore ... a fish out of water.
The next question was the obvious one. "What will you do now?"
Seton, a little shaken by the demonstration, looked even younger than his thirty years. He smiled a slightly lopsided smile and said, "Gee, I dunno. Become an astronaut?"
There was general laughter and he said, "One last question."
It came from a widely known and respected television journalist who was himself a keen sailor. "Alan, do you think the Americans have a snowball's chance in hell against the Australian winged keel?" he asked somberly.
"Yes," Seton answered with an ambiguous smile. Then he stood up, said, "Thank you very much," turned, and walked quickly away from the podium toward a rear exit. For a few seconds the press, caught off guard, remained where it was. Then it split as if by design into two groups: the first took off for Seton, hounds after the hare. The second raced to report their stories, convinced there was nothing more to be had from Seton.