Pearl Buck - The Eternal Wonder

Rann knew now that he could accept Donald Sharpe as a friend, whatever else he was, and that this friendship need not in any way affect him and what he knew himself to be, except to broaden his own understanding of yet another of the multitude of facets of human nature. Rann’s thoughts were interrupted again by the telephone on his desk. It was Rita Benson.

“Rann, if I send my car for you, can you come for cocktails and dinner? I’ve had Hal Grey here for the weekend and we’ve talked of nothing but your book and there are a few angles we would like to go over with you. You could stay over and we will ride back to the city together tomorrow.”

He said he would go. Sung prepared a light luncheon for him and packed an overnight bag and Rann was ready when the doorman announced that Mrs. Benson’s car had arrived. Traffic was light on Sunday afternoon and Rann enjoyed the drive through the suburbs onto the parkway and into Connecticut to Rita Benson’s home. It was a large old stone house she had bought and modernized and was well situated on acres of lawns and gardens, all meticulously kept. Cocktails were served to them on the south terrace, and they were enjoying the warmth of the afternoon sun. Hal Grey, seated on a long chair facing Rita and Rann, was talking.

“There are problems with the project, Rann,” he was explaining. “It’s an excellent story and will lend itself well to the screen, but the trouble is that there is no role important enough for an American star, which we must have to ensure a box office. I had thought the scriptwriters could write in the role of the author as the star so we would be doing the story of the book, which would include the story in the book and it would give us the role we need.”

The conversation continued through dinner and on into the evening and Rann agreed to work with the scriptwriters to create the needed role.

The next day, back in the city, the three of them met with Rann’s agent and Rita’s and Hal Grey’s attorneys, and the necessary papers were signed. George Pearce was delighted and insisted on taking them all to dinner afterward to celebrate. Hal Grey’s office arranged a press luncheon for the next day, where the formal announcements were to be made.

Rann was unable to suppress a feeling of hostility for Nancy Adams of the Tribune, so, knowing he would see her at luncheon the next day, he expressed his feelings to George Pearce and Rita Benson that evening. Margie and Hal Grey had excused themselves after dinner because of early morning appointments and the three of them had taken Rita’s car to Rann’s apartment, where Sung had served them drinks in the drawing room.

“Your apartment is charming, Rann. So decidedly masculine and yet I suspect a woman’s touch here and there.”

Rita sat on the couch facing the fireplace, the fire already crackling though Rann had put a match to it only minutes before when they had entered the room. Something Chinese, Rann supposed, in the way Sung laid a fire always made them catch very quickly.

“It must be Serena, my grandfather’s second wife. I’ve not changed anything since he died and left the place to me.”

Rann settled into a comfortable armchair on one side of the fire, and George chose its counterpart on the other side. Rann realized these were the first visitors he had brought here since he returned. It had not occurred to him to change anything in the apartment.

“You really should redo the place to suit your own personality, Rann.” Rita sipped her drink and placed the glass on the cocktail table. “It is good for one to express one’s self in one’s surroundings.”

“Perhaps I don’t know yet what it is I would express, Rita—but I have time for that. Right now I have a problem I think the two of you can advise me on, which is why I wanted to talk to you this evening. Tomorrow, we will have to talk to Nancy Adams—”

George Pearce interrupted. “I know. I’ve thought of that. You are understandably upset and angry over all the articles she has written, and now she has that upstart of a senator, what’s-his-name, promising a full-scale investigation based on your book. The thing to remember is that she can’t really hurt us. Oh, she can irritate and infuriate, but the more she writes the more books we sell and the richer you get in the long run. The worst that can happen is that you will have to answer some questions, but you are innocent so that can’t hurt. I say forget about it. Ignore her and go on. She is one of this new breed calling themselves investigative reporters and she is doing her job, which is to sell newspapers. The thing to remember is that she also sells books. Just don’t, under any circumstances, lose your temper with her. Then she can say something that is true. She can say you lost your temper when questioned.”

“I know how to handle it.” Rita looked thoughtful as she spoke. “Let the press conference be mine. That way, the reporters can direct their questions to me and I can ask Rann or Hal for information we want them to give.”

George Pearce took a long drink from his glass. “That’s a good idea, Rita. It seemed logical to me that you should answer their questions.”

“Of course it is. After all, at this point it is I who have spent a million dollars. That, my dears, is still news.”

They all laughed.

“There is one other point I’d like your advice on.” Rann stirred the fire as he spoke. “I had thought I’d call Senator Easton and offer to answer any questions he might have. I have nothing to hide and this way we might bring things to a head.”

“Just let it rest,” George said. “Let him call you if he wants to. You haven’t done anything—so forget it.”

“You are right, George.” Rita rose from the couch. “And now I have to get home or I probably won’t be there tomorrow.”

Rann said good night to them at the door and returned to the fire to finish his own drink.

“THERE IS NOTHING MORE FOR her to say, Mother.”

Rann was sitting in his grandfather’s study with his mother and Donald Sharpe. They had arrived on an afternoon flight and his mother was settled in his guest room while Donald Sharpe had chosen a small neighborhood hotel in the next block as his headquarters, and Sung had worked for two days to prepare the first dinner to be served to the mother of his young master. It was already dark in New York at five o’clock and the chill in the air promised that winter was not far away. The fire burned brightly in the grate as Sung refilled their glasses from a pitcher of Bloody Marys he had prepared earlier, and the aroma of hot Chinese hors d’oeuvres roasting in the oven filled the apartment.

Rann continued, “Nancy Adams has said everything she can say. She blew this whole thing up and involved Senator Easton. I went to Washington and answered questions for his committee. General Appleby flew in from Korea and told of all the arrests they had made there and that was all there was to it.”

“Well”—his mother frowned—“she could have written an article reporting the outcome. She could have said that you are innocent after all the nasty things she implied.”

“Rann is right, Susan. Reporters seldom write articles stating they were mistaken in the first place, and it would certainly be out of character for Nancy Adams. Rann is a public figure now. His book is still number one on all the lists. He simply has to put up with what they say and go on with his work, which brings me around to this.” Donald Sharpe pulled a thin black leather attaché case onto his knees and snapped open the latch, removing a large manila envelope. “It’s your father’s manuscript, Rann. Your mother gave it to me to read some time ago and it’s so good I think you should do something with it.”