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  Juliana looked radiant-considering…

  Count Fersten was remarkably charming-considering…

  And if the marriage lasted a year, it would be four months longer than anyone expected.

  Extra workmen were hired to speed the completion of the house and stables in order to accommodate Bernadotte's growing family. Juliana adored her husband with a young girl's worship which, while flattering, was unnerving. They were, however, extremely compatible in bed.

  When Charles was born, Bernadotte was pleased to find that his wife's smothering affection was easily transferred to her son. And it was with great relief that he found he'd taken on the less demanding role of “father” in Juliana's life now that her loving attention was focused on her baby.

  They outlasted the speculators in Baltimore who'd predicted a swift demise of their marriage. Juliana stayed at his country estate for three years, although she traveled often with Charles to her homes in Baltimore and Palm Beach. Despite Bernadotte's preference for his hermitage near the Canadian border, he found his new family warm and loving.

  When Charles was three, Juliana decided that she and her son were better off on their own. The separation was amiable, and Bernadotte extended an open invitation to return for visits. Charles spent his summers with his father, while Bernadotte traveled to Palm Beach for Christmas each year.

  Their son grew into a sturdy youngster, assured of his parents' love and support. However, he had inherited the taint of wildness bred through generations of Ferstens. In the middle of his senior year Charles was expelled from the sixth in a line of prep schools when it became clear that his boyish pranks were motivated by a dangerous compulsion for lawlessness.

  After Charles's latest escapade, Juliana called Bernadotte. “He needs a man's touch now, dear,” she said. “I can't control him. Would you mind?”

  He didn't mind, of course. He doted on his only child, by now a rangy, big-boned youth whose whipcord body hadn't quite caught up to his growth. So when Charles returned to his father in disgrace yet again, Bernadotte said that first evening after dinner, “I won't say you shouldn't have done all those things at school, Charles, and I understand nonconformity. But the escapades have worried your mother. I'd appreciate,” he gently admonished, “if you could put these rebellious high jinks into some kind of proportion.”

  “There's too many rules, Father. I can't stand it,” said Charles, a maverick by deepest instinct.

  “Living here will eliminate most of the rules,” his father assured him. “If you remember to act like a gentleman and have respect for other people's feelings, I won't expect much more.”

  And with responsibility on his own youthful shoulders, Carey, as his mother called him-a family diminutive for Carrville males-developed a grudging maturity. As his parents' son, he was a naturally skilled rider. Under his father's guidance he began taking an active interest in the Fersten stables. A tutor was brought in to finish out the last few months of school, and then Carey entered his first European steeplechase event. It was too much for a young boy. He won and won and won, and at eighteen the adulation overwhelmed him. In December his father brought him home to recuperate; he'd been living on nerves and liquor for the last month.

  Although barely eighteen, he'd seen much of the world and indulged his senses past prudence for a long time, more so lately with the hedonistic partying accompanying the race circuit. Women were interested in a winner-and a rich, handsome winner increased the offerings to dizzying proportions. He was worn out, worn down in body and spirit. Pleasure had somehow lost its fine edge.

  It can happen at any age, the questioning… What is happiness? What sustains it? How is it measured? Or would satisfaction be a plainer word for a plainer world?

  His spirits at low ebb, Carey came back to the States at a time when newscasts were pressing home the need to save a small Asian country struggling toward democracy. The first U.S. war fought on television showed young children dying before the viewer's eyes, depicted old, helpless people displaced from their lifelong homes, pitilessly presented footage of entire villages disappearing under napalm attacks. The politicians were talking then about “the light at the end of the tunnel,” and Carey felt a surge of the spirit that had called his father and his father's father and countless Ferstens from the days of medieval baronies to fight other peoples' wars. Instead of resting, Carey impetuously joined the marines, a spontaneous decision based on a fugitive combination of melancholy, youthful idealism, and remembered stories of Fersten ancestors who had fought through a thousand years of Europe's history.

  He may not have taken so drastic a step had his life been less off course. But the decision didn't seem drastic at the time; it seemed as if he'd been handed an opportunity to do something more significant than proving one's skill as an athlete on and off the course. He told himself it was wise to at least make his own choice by enlisting at a time when the draft was hot on the heels of eighteen-year-olds without deferments. But he realized the flaw in that rationalization: Generals' sons weren't fighting this war, nor were senators' sons or rich men's sons. He wouldn't have had to go. But, brooding and moody, with an elusive desire to test himself and somehow help in the tragedy five thousand miles away, Carey Fersten joined up. At the time he thought of himself as another Fersten male going off to war, another generation. There was pride in that.

  When he came back from Vietnam two years later, the boyishness was gone and his bright idealism had faded. He stayed in his room for two weeks, not even coming downstairs for meals. His father had been aware of the drugs, but he'd only watched and waited, careful not to intrude upon the painful readjustment.

  During his third week home, Carey received a visit from the widow of his best buddy in the corps, a man who'd died in his arms. Dhani MacIntosh had taken the bus from Chicago-a day and a half trip with transfers and layovers-and had walked the last three miles from the highway. She brought the pictures Mac had sent back to her, all the ones in which he and Carey had been standing arm-in-arm or clowning around with the usual rude gestures and uplifted beer bottles. And she wanted to talk about Mac, wanted to know everything that the brief letters hadn't been able to say, wanted to be with someone Mac had loved like a brother.

  It was the first time Carey had cried since he'd come back. They both cried, held each other and cried.

  “The first time I saw Mac, he was nineteen,” Carey began. “He had just flunked out of college and decided the marines might pay the bills for you and Mac Junior. He walked into our temporary camp after carrying a basketball through five miles of jungle. Best damn sight I'd seen in four long months of hell. He called me ‘Shorty'… it was the first time in years I'd looked up at anyone… and asked me if I played basketball. We set up a makeshift hoop and played horse or twenty-one or one-on-one. Sometimes when we went back to the main camp for a few days, we'd put together a real game. Mac and I, Luger and Ant, along with a pickup guard or sometimes without one. We whipped everyone's ass.”

  “He said you were the first cool honkey he'd ever met,” Dhani said with a smile.

  “I had fewer hang-ups than a lot of folks out there, and Mac and I liked to party. No women,” Carey quickly interposed. “There weren't any out where we spent most of our time. Mac and I and some of the crew would just party up and talk about what we were going to do when we got out. He wanted to start up a community center in your old neighborhood, he said, and help a few kids out of the ghetto. Mac always felt if he'd paid more attention in school, he wouldn't have flunked out. The basketball scholarship got him to college but couldn't keep him there.”

  “He never learned how to read real well,” Dhani said softly.

  “I know. He knew. But he wanted to make it better for some other kids. It's the only fast track out of the ghetto, he'd say, sports and school.”

  “I'm in a job training program now. I think I might be able to start college next year.”

  Carey's eyes filled with tears, and he brushed a quick hand over t
he wetness. “Do you know how happy Mac would be to know that? Hey, Mac, you hear that?” he said, looking up. “You hear how smart a wife you've got?” He smiled a rueful smile at Dhani. “I talk to him all the time. Christ, people'll call me nuts, I suppose, but I do.”

  “Me, too. He was the kind you just know would always listen.”

  Carey looked out at the late fall landscape and swore under his breath. Turning back abruptly, he said, “You know what pisses me off something fierce? There's plenty of assholes living… and Mac's dead. It's not fair!”

  “Did he suffer?” Dhani asked after they'd talked about the futility and the injustice, after they'd discussed the good memories and the good times. She had avoided the question until the last because she wanted to know, but was afraid of the answer.

  “No,” Carey replied. Sitting on the porch railing in the late afternoon sun, he looked down at the even rows of planking below his feet before he looked back at her. “No, he didn't suffer,” he lied.

  Dhani exhaled a great breath of relief. “I was afraid… he'd… the end was… awful.”

  “It was fast,” Carey said. “Really. How's Mac Junior?” he asked. And while Dhani talked about her son, Carey tried to press back the terrible memories of Mac's death.

  They had just been dropped into the clearing they'd already taken twice in the last six months. He was at point and Mac was slack man, five yards behind him when Mac stepped on the mine. The explosion knocked Carey flat. When he turned back to the anguished screams, he saw what was left of Mac thrown on a heavy jungle bush. Mac's arms and legs were gone. If he lived a million years, he'd never forget the sight of Mac crying for him. As he scrambled back, Carey screamed for a corpsman. “It's all right, Mac, I'm here. I'm here.” Very gently he lifted the man who had been six foot six into his arms, carefully eased himself onto the ground, and held him. Staring out of the dense green growth of underbrush that for a suspended moment in time seemed to isolate them as the last two men on earth, Carey roared, “If there's not a corpsman here in two minutes, I'm going to kill somebody!”

  Mac's eyes were open wide. “I don't want to die,” he whispered.

  “You won't,” Carey said fiercely. “I won't let you. Corpsman!” he screamed. “Dammit, we need a fucking corpsman over here!”

  “I can't feel anything, Shorty. Am I going to make it?”

  “It's shock, Mac. The feeling will come back. Your body's in shock.” But with each beat of his heart, Mac's arteries were pumping away his life. “We'll have you fixed up in no time,” Carey reassured him.

  Just then a VC artillery unit began a dropping pattern along the tree line sheltering the company. No one could move. No medic came. As soon as the mortars started exploding, the Hueys that had dropped them in the clearing lifted like big, lumbering birds and flew away. Carey swore at them as they disappeared over the treetops.

  He told Mac the copters would be there in a minute for him, that he'd be taken out to the nearest field hospital, that he'd earned a good, long R and R. He lied and lied and lied while his best friend died in his arms.

  When Mac was dead, Carey made a soft bed for him in the undergrowth. Oblivious to the VC mortars systematically sweeping across the tree line while the firebase on the hill got their bearings on target, he raced toward the drop point where he knew the corpsmen would be. He manhandled a protesting corporal through the exploding shells to where Mac lay and said to him in a cold, level voice, “I want his arms and legs sewn back on.”

  The horrified man stared at him. When the medic opened his mouth to object, Carey lifted his M-16, pointed it directly at the man's head, and said, “Mac was my best friend.”

  The gruesome task, performed hastily but done, was accomplished only moments after the VC bombardment stopped as suddenly as it had started. And now we'll take this clearing for the third time, Carey thought cynically. Mac was dead. For what? The Cong would own this piece of land again an hour after they left.

  “Thanks,” Carey said softly into the eerie silence after a steady hour of ear-shattering explosions. He lowered his weapon. “Thanks. He needs them to play basketball.” The corpsman nervously eased himself away from the tall blond man whose glazed eyes stared at the gruesome body on the ground. “Is that better now, Mac?” he heard him say before he turned and ran out of range of the crazy soldier's M-16.

  Carey stayed with Mac until his body was lifted aboard a chopper. And then he cried.

  Dhani stayed overnight, and that evening at dinner Bernadotte saw a glimpse of the Carey of former days as his son entertained Dhani with humorous anecdotes of Vietnam. It was the first visible break in the brittle, self-contained man who'd come back from Vietnam, the man who'd stayed in his room watching TV, not sleeping, hardly eating, trying to deal with some inner nightmare that wouldn't loosen its hold.

  They sat afterward over Drambuie and made plans for the center Carey wanted to fund as a memorial to Mac. For the first time in weeks, he was animated, making suggestions as fast as Dhani could write them down, giving orders as he'd always had the tendency to do, then apologizing to her with a quick, flashing smile. Bernadotte had to excuse himself briefly when he saw that first smile. It brought back images of a chubby two-year-old toddler riding his first pony, and a young boy coaxing his father to let him have a motorcycle years too early. It was the smile Carey warmed rooms of cold-eyed cynics with. His son had returned to him, and Bernadotte needed a moment alone for his tears to subside.

  The following day, after Bernadotte's chauffeur had driven Dhani away, Carey turned to his father and said, “I think I'll go for a ride.”

  Controlling the impulse to dance a jig for the first time in his life, Bernadotte calmly replied, “It's a pleasant afternoon for a ride. I'll have Leon saddle Tarrytown.”

  The riding helped Carey's recuperation; day by day the familiarity of the stark countryside so different from Vietnam slowly blurred his most horrifying memories. In a month the taut edginess had diminished, and in another month Carey came home one day with a movie camera, and announced he'd signed up for a film course at the nearby college.

  What started as something to allay the recurring nightmares, a diversion to fill in time until the next steeplechase season began, became an obsession. He had found his mйtier in an artistic discipline that struck a rudimentary chord in every nerve and pulsing beat of his restless soul. He had the eye and the rhythm and the inherent genius to cut right to the core of human feeling, and he made the supremely difficult art of moviemaking look effortless.

  It was as if a door had opened into the promised land. All the wealth in his life had never given him the joy and excitement that film-making did. With an artistic, creative mentor who recognized his talent, Carey spent the next two years learning his craft. And then after a summer spent fluctuating between high highs and low lows, when he kept a picture on his dresser of himself and a lovely blond girl sitting on a dock, he decided to finish school at USC. “It's the place to go for film,” he said, “and there're lots of blonds in California.” Grown men didn't die of love. Grown men said, “Get a grip on yourself. Life goes on.” But he'd never before been without something he wanted. And he was badly out of sorts.

  So once he was settled at USC, he proceeded with a demolishing vengeance to test the theory that “blonds have more fun.” His master's thesis won a Cannes Film Award, and he was launched. Phrases like astonishing, phenomenal, a unique talent, an inner eye like Leonardo, Michelangelo, and Van Gogh combined, potent sensitivity that stirs the soul-flamboyant praise in the hot glare of the world's most prestigious gathering of talent described the newest wunderkind of the celluloid world. He was a sensation.

  His mother was pleased he'd found some direction in his life, though she never understood his films and still found horses less demanding. His father watched his progress as a film-maker with keen interest and regarded his son's personal life with a lenient indulgence.

  CHAPTER 8

  I n Nice, Rutledge greeted Carey at
the open door. The surveillance cameras had followed the car from the front gate. “Good evening, Monsieur le Count.” Rutledge was always punctilious in his address, though Carey preferred less formality.

  “Evening Rutledge. Good to see you. Is Sylvie here?”

  “Yes, sir, in the library.”

  Carey's brows rose questioningly. Sylvie was not known for her bookish habits.

  “She's having a Cognac, sir,” Rutledge said in answer to the silent question. “This way, please.”

  Carey followed him down a corridor of trompe l'oeil landscapes and open-door vistas he'd always considered the villa's best feature. They were very early nineteenth-century work, the villa having been built as a country retreat before the Edwardian influx of aristocracy crowded every square inch of precious sea view with an ornate pile of derivative architecture. Sylvie's villa was pure palladian, its airy rooms open to the Mediterranean sun.

  Carey patiently stood back while Rutledge opened the door to the library after one knock and announced in his deep basso, “Count Charles Fersten.”

  Sylvie jumped up and ran toward Carey, her silver hair shining in the lamp-lit room, the fuschia silk jumpsuit she wore an incongruous color amid the muted brown tones of old leather-bound books and cherrywood paneling. With dainty sandaled feet flying over the kilim carpet, she crossed the broad expanse of floor, her arms held wide. Carey braced himself for one of her impetuous hugs.

  Rutledge discreetly shut the door at her first purring words. “I missed you, dear husband.”

  “Ex-husband, Sylvie,” Carey murmured, gently extricating himself from her scented embrace, suspiciously wondering if he'd been lured here on false pretenses. “Where's Egon?”

  “You look wonderful, darling,” Sylvie breathed in dulcet tones, her beautifully made-up eyes taking in the full impact of one of the handsomest men on six continents. “I like your new haircut.”

  “It's not new.”