Authors: David Hagberg
Heartland (6 page)
“I've not singled out your family, Jorge,” Newman said with feeling. He truly liked the old man. “In the beginning we were friends. You taught me nearly everything I know.” He turned away and looked out the open doors toward the jungle, the airstrip beyond. “I had always thought you would be proud of my achievements.”
“Proud?” Vance-Ehrhardt sputtered.
Newman turned on him. “Yes, goddamn it, proud. I was like a son to you.”
“A son who turned on his father.”
Newman wanted to tell him that Lydia had demanded they marry anywhere but here. He wanted to tell the older man many things, but he held his tongue. He could understand his feelings of betrayal, and although he could not help him, he would not make it any more difficult than it already was.
“I will not accept your offer, Jorge. Lydia and I will marry this morning, and afterward we will leave here and remain away for as long as you wish.”
Vance-Ehrhardt stared at him a moment longer, then turned, stalked out, and slammed the door behind him.
For a time Newman remained still, listening to the sounds of the house and to the roar of yet another approaching aircraft, but then he turned away, took his cigarettes from the bureau, and lit one.
The wedding was scheduled for 11:00 A.M., and afterward there was to be a reception on the lawn beside the pool. Lydia had made him promise that they would remain only two hours, and then they would leave. It would be one more thing Vance-Ehrhardt would blame on him, but in the end it wouldn't really matter.
They had been friends once. Now they had become fierce competitors, not only in business, but for the affection of Lydia, Vance-Ehrhardt's only child.
A deep sorrow passed through Newman, because he knew that his marriage to Lydia would never work out. They were bound to fail. And if there were bad feelings all around now, they would worsen with time. And yet he could not help himself. Because he did love her.
The heat shimmered off the main east-west runway at Mexico City's International Airport as the gigantic Aerolinear Argentinas 747 came ponderously in on its final approach. Newman glanced past Lydia, who was seated by the window, his earlier agitation finally subsiding. They had flown all night, and a thick early-morning haze covered the city so that he could not see the mountains, and he was glad that they would not be staying here, as they had originally planned. The city was too depressing. They had only two weeks, and he wanted to relax and enjoy himself.
He sat back away from the window, and Lydia reached over and kissed him on the cheek. “It wasn't as bad as you thought it would be, was it?” she asked.
“Still, we should have stayed a little longer.”
“So what?” Lydia said disdainfully. “You and he
would have gotten into an argument sooner or later. My mother would have cried. Pablo would probably have threatened you. And my uncles would have stormed out.” She tossed her right shoulder and glanced out the window as they crossed over the end of the runway. “We saved them all that grief.”
would have gotten into an argument sooner or later. My mother would have cried. Pablo would probably have threatened you. And my uncles would have stormed out.” She tossed her right shoulder and glanced out the window as they crossed over the end of the runway. “We saved them all that grief.”
Newman reached for her hand, and she turned back to him. “No regrets?” he asked.
She started to laugh, but then she read the serious expression on his face. “No regrets, Kenneth,” she said softly. “But I'm frightened.”
It was a rare admission for her, and Newman wondered if she was merely toying with him. “Of what?” he asked, nevertheless.
“Of myself,” she said solemnly.
For several seconds they looked into each other's eyes, but then the aircraft touched down with a lurch and a loud bark of its tires, breaking the mood. Lydia smiled.
“I really don't know what married life is all about, yet. But as soon as I get you into our hotel room, I'll see what I can do about that.”
“There'll be a slight delay,” Newman said, and before she could say anything, he added, “I've got a little surprise for you.”
“Surprise? What kind of surprise?” Lydia bubbled.
“You'll just have to wait and see.”
“What have you done?”
“Soon,” Newman said. “You're Mrs. Newman now, not Lydia Vance-Ehrhardt.”
Lydia's expression darkened for just an instant, and Newman felt certain she was going to flare, but then she settled back in her seat, a quiet smile on her lips. “Mrs.
Kenneth Newman. Strange.”
Kenneth Newman. Strange.”
They were slowing down now, and as they turned off the main runway onto the taxiway, the stewardess came down the aisle. She was smiling. Newman looked up.
“Mr. and Mrs. Newman, you will be the first off the aircraft. There is transportation awaiting your arrival.”
“Thank you.”
“I hope you enjoyed your flight.”
“Yes, thanks,” Newman said, “Our luggage will be taken care of?”
“Yes, sir, it will be sent on.”
“Sent on where?” Lydia asked sharply.
Newman glanced at her. “You'll see.”
The stewardess went back up the aisle, and Newman watched her go. She was a plain girl, but she had a pleasant Spanish face and a warm smile. How different his life would have been, he thought, had he never met Jorge Vance-Ehrhardt. Had he never fallen in love with Lydia. How different, and how much less complicated.
Lydia squeezed his hand, and he turned back to her again. “Any regrets?” she asked.
“Lots,” he said. “But not because I married you.”
Lydia gazed down the aisle toward where their stewardess was talking with another. “You're not sorry you didn't marry someone less complicated?”
“Simple women bore me,” he said.
“I'll never bore you.”
“I don't think so.”
The aircraft lumbered up to the terminal and stopped, but before the loading tunnel was attached, the stewardess came back to them. “You may deplane now, your car is waiting. And may I offer my congratulations?”
“Thank you,” Newman said. He unbuckled his seat-belt, then got up, helping Lydia out of her seat. They went down the aisle, the other first-class passengers looking up curiously. Boarding stairs had been pushed up beneath the waiting tunnel at the front door, and the stewardess smiled at them again as they left the aircraft.
It was hot outside, and the air smelled strongly of burned jet fuel and automobile exhaust. Paul Saratt, Newman's business assistant, was waiting at the bottom, a huge grin on his face.
“Welcome to Mexico City,” he said, as they came down the steps. “And congratulations.”
Newman shook his hand. “Thanks, Paul, but don't say a thing to Lydia about our plans, she has no idea yet what's going on.”
“May I offer my congratulations to you, Mrs. Newman,” Saratt said gallantly.
“Only if you tell me what's happening here,” Lydia retorted testily.
“My lips are sealed,” Saratt said. He was a heavyset man of medium height, with white hair and a wide, pleasant face. He had worked with Newman for the past eight years and knew almost as much about the grain business as Newman himself, and certainly more about Newman's actual holdings. They had become great friends, and Newman trusted him more than any other person on the face of the earth. It had hurt Saratt that he was not invited to the wedding, but he said he understood. Newman had the distinct impression, however, that Saratt did not entirely approve of Lydia.
He led them to a waiting Rolls and, when they were in the back seat, climbed in the front with the uniformed driver. They headed rapidly across the field, toward the
private aviation hangars and terminal.
private aviation hangars and terminal.
“Will someone tell me what's going on here?” Lydia asked.
Saratt did not turn around, and Newman stared out the window, a silent grin on his face. Two weeks ago he had arranged all this with Saratt, and now he intended to play it to the hilt. As far as the Vance-Ehrhardt family knew, he and Lydia would be spending the next couple of days here in Mexico City, and then a week and a half at the family's estate near Mazatlán, before returning to the States. Several weeks ago, however, he had been offered the use of a lovely villa overlooking the Mediterranean just above Monaco, and he had accepted. Very few people would know where they had gone, which was the way Newman wanted it. He knew he would have felt uncomfortable in a Vance-Ehrhardt house, with a Vance-Ehrhardt staff watching his every move and reporting back to Jorge.
Despite himself, Newman found his thoughts drifting back to the business, specifically his relationship with Jorge. Had his and Jorge's positions been reversed, Newman had no doubt that he would have reacted much the same as the older man. He too would have been hurt, then angry. Yet it was part of the grain business. From the earliest days it had been a cut-throat enterprise. And after the Second World War, when many nations had suddenly found themselves very dependent upon their neighbors' food supplies, the business had become even more fiercely competitive.
“It is the survival of the fittest, Kenneth,” Jorge had once told him. “The strong survive, the weak perish. As it should be.” It was a lesson Newman had learned all too well.
The car pulled up by the front hatch of a 707. The plane was painted a muted gold color, with the Newman Company logoâtwin eagles holding stalks of grain in their talonsâin bright red on the tail.
“We're not staying in Mexico City?” Lydia asked, realizing what was happening.
Newman smiled. “How about Monaco?”
For a moment it seemed as if Lydia would flare again, but then she laughed. “Father will be furious,” she said. “He wanted us in Mazatlán under his control for a couple of weeks. He probably had our bedroom bugged.”
“I wouldn't put it past him,” Newman said.
“Or me?”
Newman wanted to laugh, but something in her eyes held him back. Or her? It had happened before. Industrial espionage through a carefully arranged marriage.
The lady doth protest too much, methinks
. The vagrant line crossed his mind. It wasn't beyond Jorge. But Lydia?
The lady doth protest too much, methinks
. The vagrant line crossed his mind. It wasn't beyond Jorge. But Lydia?
The chauffeur opened the rear door on Newman's side, then stepped back respectfully. Saratt turned around in his seat.
“I'm going to hitch a ride with you two, and then take the plane. I have some business to take care of.”
Newman started to ask where, but then held back as Saratt's eyes narrowed. Lydia caught the exchange of looks between the two men, but said nothing.
“Are we just going to sit here for the remainder of the day?” she asked.
“I hope not,” Newman said, and helped her out. Saratt followed them up the boarding stairs.
“Good afternoon, sir,” Jacob, Newman's steward, said, greeting them just within the cabin. He was a small, dark-skinned Arab.
“Are we about ready to take off?” Newman asked.
“Whenever you and Mrs. Newman are ready, sir.” Jacob had been the chief steward aboard the grain ship
Pamplonas
, owned by one of Newman's subsidiaries, until Newman had been so impressed by the man's grace and abilities that he had hired him off the ship for personal service. Jacob had proved to be even better than Newman had hoped he'd be.
Pamplonas
, owned by one of Newman's subsidiaries, until Newman had been so impressed by the man's grace and abilities that he had hired him off the ship for personal service. Jacob had proved to be even better than Newman had hoped he'd be.
Saratt went forward onto the flight deck as Newman led Lydia back into the luxuriously appointed main cabin, equipped with several easy chairs, a couch and coffee table, and a wet bar. An aft cabin contained a bedroom with a queen-sized bed and a large bathroom.
When they had strapped into easy chairs, Jacob went forward, and moments later the jet's engines whined into life.
“I have a feeling something is going on,” Lydia said.
“What do you mean?”
“Don't play games with me, Kenneth. I saw the look between you and Paul. He's got something cooking. You forget, I know the business too.”
Newman nodded. “He probably does,” he said. “But I'm on my honeymoon.”
As the aircraft began to move slowly away from the terminal, Lydia reached out for Newman's hand, an intense expression on her face. “It's not going to be easy between us, Kenneth. We both know that. But ⦔ She hesitated a moment.
“But what?”
“These next two weeks may be the only nearly normal time we'll ever have.”
Newman started to protest, although he knew she was correct, but she held him off.
“No, listen to me, darling. I don't want anything to
spoil these next few days. I was going to suggest we not go on to Mazatlán, that we go someplace else. But whatever it is that Paul is going to tell you once we take off, don't let it change anything. At least not now.”
spoil these next few days. I was going to suggest we not go on to Mazatlán, that we go someplace else. But whatever it is that Paul is going to tell you once we take off, don't let it change anything. At least not now.”
Newman didn't know what to say. At that moment he felt an overwhelming love for her. She was like a little lost child whom he would have to protect, not the willful, headstrong daughter of one of the wealthiest men in the world.
“I'll have to listen to whatever it is Paul has to say. But whatever it is, I'll talk it over with you,” Newman said.
Lydia shook her head. “I don't want to hear about it. I don't want to hear about anything except us.”
Newman just looked at her.
“In fact, I never want to know anything about your business. I'm still a Vance-Ehrhardt. It's something you should never forget.”
“You're my wife ⦔ Newman started, but again she cut him off.
“Listen to me with your brain, not with your heart, Kenneth, because this is probably the only time I'll ever be this honest with you. I
am
a Vance-Ehrhardt, I'm Jorge's daughter. I love you, but I love my father as well. I never want to know about your business. That will have to remain totally separate from our world together. It's for your own protection.”
am
a Vance-Ehrhardt, I'm Jorge's daughter. I love you, but I love my father as well. I never want to know about your business. That will have to remain totally separate from our world together. It's for your own protection.”
The aircraft's intercom chimed, and the pilot's voice came over the speakers. “Are you ready back there, Mr. Newman?”
Newman reached over and picked up the telephone. “Any time you are,” he said.
Immediately they turned onto the runway, the engines
rose up the scale, and they were accelerating, pressed deeply into their seats.
rose up the scale, and they were accelerating, pressed deeply into their seats.
Newman found himself thinking back to the stewardess on the flight from Buenos Aires. She had seemed like a simple, sweet girl. Uncomplicated, with no guile. He had always been a loner in his business, and yet he had wanted someone to share in it with him. A wife with whom to live his triumphs and defeats, his fears and regrets. But Lydia was telling him that that would be impossible with her, because whatever he told her about his business would of necessity get back to her father.
It was ironic, he thought, that he had hurt Jorge so terribly and now had placed himself in a position where Vance-Ehrhardt could gain the advantage. But such was life. Despite the difficulties, he was glad he had married Lydia. Despite the fact their marriage was doomed to fail, he was still happy at this moment.
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