The Stars Shine Down

During the next few weeks Lara and Keller flew to Atlanta to investigate two sites at Ansley Park and one at Dunwoody.



"Get me some prices on Dunwoody," Lara said. "We might put some condos there."



From Atlanta they flew to New Orleans. They spent two days exploring the central business district and a day at Lake Pontchartrain. Lara found two sites she liked.



A day after they returned, Keller walked into Lara's office. "We had some bad luck on the Atlanta project," he said.



"What do you mean?"



"Someone beat us to it."



Lara looked at him, surprised. "How could they? Those properties weren't even on the market."



"I know. Word must have leaked out."



Lara shrugged. "I guess you can't win them all."



That afternoon Keller had more bad news. "We lost the Lake Pontchartrain deal."



The following week they flew to Seattle and explored Mercer Island and Kirkland. There was one site that interested Lara, and when they returned to New York, she said to Keller, "Let's go after it. I think it could be a money-maker."



"Right."



At a meeting the next day Lara asked, "Did you put in the bid on Kirkland?"



Keller shook his head. "Someone got there ahead of us."



Lara was thoughtful. "Oh. Howard, see if you can find out who's jumping the gun on us."



It took him less than twenty-four hours. "Steve Murchison."



"Did he get all those deals?"



"Yes."



"So someone in this office has a big mouth."



"It looks that way."



Her face was grim. The next morning she hired a detective agency to find the culprit. They had no success.



"As far as we can tell, all your employees are clean, Miss Cameron. None of the offices is bugged, and your phones haven't been tapped."



They had reached a dead end.



Maybe they were just coincidences, Lara thought. She did not believe it.



The sixty-eight-story residential tower in Queens was half completed, and Lara had invited the bankers to come and inspect its progress. The higher the number of floors, the more expensive the unit. Lara's sixty-eight stories had only fifty-seven actual floors. It was a trick she had learned from Paul Martin.



"Everybody does it," Paul had laughed. "All you do is change the floor numbers."



"How do you do that?"



"It's very simple. Your first bank of elevators is from the lobby to the twenty-fourth floor. The second bank of elevators is from the thirty-fourth floor to the sixty-eighth. It's done all the time."



Because of the unions, the construction jobs had half a dozen phantoms on salary - people who did not exist. There was a Director of Safety Practices, the Coordinator of Construction, the Supervisor of Materials, and others with impressive-sounding titles. In the beginning Lara had questioned it.



"Don't worry about it," Paul had told her. "It's all part of the CDB - the cost of doing business."



Howard Keller had been living in a small apartment in Washington Square, and when Lara had visited him one evening, she had looked around the tiny apartment and said, "This is a rattrap. You've got to move out of here." At Lara's urging, he had moved into a condominium uptown.



One night Lara and Keller were working late, and when they finally finished, Lara said, "You look exhausted. Why don't you go home and get some sleep, Howard?"



"Good idea," Keller yawned. "See you in the morning."



"Come in late," Lara told him.



Keller got into his car and started driving home. He was thinking about a deal they had just closed and how well Lara had handled it. It was exciting working with her. Exciting and frustrating. Somehow, in the back of his mind, he kept hoping that a miracle would happen. / was blind not to have seen it before, Howard darling. I'm not interested in Paul Martin or Philip Adler. It's you I've loved all along.



Fat chance.



When Keller reached his apartment, he took out his key and put it in the lock. It did not fit. Puzzled, he tried again. Suddenly the door flew open from the inside, and a stranger was standing there. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" the man asked.



Keller looked at him, bewildered. "I live here."



"The hell you do."



"But I..." Realization suddenly hit him. "I...I'm sorry," he stammered, red-faced. "I used to live here. I..."



The door was slammed in his face. Keller stood there, disconcerted. How could I have forgotten that I moved? I've been working too hard.



Lara was in the middle of a conference when her private phone rang. "You've been pretty busy lately, baby. I've missed you."



"I've been traveling a lot, Paul." She couldn't bring herself to say that she had missed him.



"Let's have lunch today."



Lara thought about all he had done for her.



"I'd like that," she said. The last thing in the world she wanted to do was to hurt him.



They had lunch at Mr. Chow's.



"You're looking great," Paul said. "Whatever you've been doing agrees with you. How's the Reno hotel coming?"



"It's coming along beautifully," Lara said enthusiastically. She spent the next fifteen minutes describing how the work was progressing. "We should be ready to open in two months."



A man and woman across the room were just leaving. The man's back was to Lara, but he looked familiar. When he turned for an instant, she caught a glimpse of his face. Steve Murchison. The woman with him looked familiar also. She stooped to pick up her purse, and Lara's heart skipped a beat. Gertrude Meeks, my secretary. "Bingo," Lara said softly.



"Is anything wrong?" Paul asked.



"No. Everything's fine."



Lara went on describing the hotel.



When Lara returned from lunch, she sent for Keller.



"Do you remember the property in Phoenix we looked at a few months ago?"



"Yeah, we turned it down. You said it was a dog."



"I've changed my mind." She pressed down the intercom. "Gertrude, would you come in here, please?"



"Yes, Miss Cameron."



Gertrude Meeks came into the office.



"I want to dictate a memo," Lara said. "To the Baron Brothers in Phoenix."



Gertrude started writing.



"Gentlemen, I have reconsidered the Scottsdale property and have decided to go ahead with it immediately. I think in time it is going to be my most valuable asset." Keller was staring at her. "I'll be in touch with you regarding price in the next few days. Best regards. I'll sign it."



"Yes, Miss Cameron. Is that all?"



"That's all."



Keller watched Gertrude leave the room. He turned to Lara. "Lara, what are you doing? We had that property analyzed. It's worthless! If you..."



"Calm down. We're not making a deal for it."



"Then why...?"



"Unless I miss my guess, Steve Murchison will. I saw Gertrude having lunch with him today."



Keller was staring at Lara. "I'll be damned."



"I want you to wait a couple of days and then call Baron and ask about the property."



Two days later Keller came into Lara's office, grinning. "You were right," he said. "Murchison took the bait - hook, line, and sinker. He's now the proud owner of fifty acres of worthless land."



Lara sent for Gertrude Meeks.



"Yes, Miss Cameron?"



"You're fired," Lara said.



Gertrude looked at her in surprise. "Fired? Why?"



"I don't like the company you keep. Go back to Steve Murchison and tell him I said so."



Gertrude's face lost its color. "But I..."



"That's all. I'll have you escorted out of here."



At midnight Lara buzzed Max, her chauffeur. "Bring the car around to the front," Lara said.



"Yes, Miss Cameron."



The car was there waiting for her.



"Where would you like to go, Miss Cameron?" Max asked.



"Drive around Manhattan. I want to see what I've done."



He was staring at her. "I beg your pardon?"



"I want to look at my buildings."



They drove around the city and stopped at the shopping mall, the housing center, and the skyscraper. There was Cameron Square, Cameron Plaza, Cameron Center, and the skeleton of Cameron Towers. Lara sat in the car, staring at each building, thinking about the people living there and working there. She had touched all their lives. I've made this city better, Lara thought. I've done everything I wanted to do. Then why am I restless? What is missing? But she knew.



The following morning Lara telephoned William Ellerbee, Philip's concert manager.



"Good morning, Mr. Ellerbee."



"Good morning, Miss Cameron. What can I do for you?"



"I was wondering where Philip Adler is playing this week."



"Philip has a pretty heavy schedule. Tomorrow night he'll be in Amsterdam, then he goes on to Milan, Venice, and...do you want to know the rest of his...?"



"No, no. That's fine. I was just curious. Thank you."



"No problem."



Lara walked into Keller's office. "Howard, I have to go to Amsterdam."



He looked at her in surprise. "What do we have going on there?"



"It's just an idea," Lara said evasively. "I'll let you know if it checks out. Have them get the jet ready for me, will you?"



"You sent Bert to London on it, remember? I'll tell them to have it back here tomorrow, and..."



"I want to leave today." There was an urgency in her that took her completely by surprise. "I'll fly commercial." She returned to her office and said to Kathy, "Get me a seat on the first flight to Amsterdam on KLM."



"Yes, Miss Cameron."



"Are you going to be gone long?" Keller asked. "We have some meetings coming up that..."



"I'll be back in a day or two."



"Do you want me to come with you?"



"Thanks, Howard. Not this time."



"I talked to a senator friend of mine in Washington. He thinks there's a chance they're going to pass a bill that will remove most of the tax incentives for building. If it passes, it's going to kill capital gains taxes and stop accelerated depreciation."



"That would be stupid," Lara said. "It would cripple the real estate industry."



"I know. He's against the bill."



"A lot of people will be against it. It will never pass," Lara predicted. "In the first place..."



The private phone on the desk rang. Lara stared at it. It rang again.



"Aren't you going to answer it?" Keller asked. Lara's mouth was dry. "No."



Paul Martin listened to the hollow ring a dozen times before he replaced the receiver. He sat there a long time thinking about Lara. It seemed to him that lately she had been less accessible, a little cooler. Could there be someone else? No. Paul Martin thought. She belongs to me. She'll always belong to me.



The flight on KLM was pleasant. The first-class seats in the wide-bodied 747 were spacious and comfortable, and the cabin attendants were attentive.



Lara was too nervous to eat or drink anything. What am I doing? she wondered. I'm going to Amsterdam uninvited, and he'll probably be too busy to even see me. Running after him is going to ruin whatever chance I might have had. Too late.



She checked in at the Grand Hotel on Oudezijds Voorburgwal 197, one of the most beautiful hotels in Amsterdam.



"We have a lovely suite for you, Miss Cameron," the clerk said.



"Thank you. I understand that Philip Adler is giving a recital this evening. Do you know where he would be playing?"



"Of course, Miss Cameron. At the Concertgebouw."



"Could you arrange a ticket for me?"



"It will be my pleasure."



As Lara entered her suite, the telephone was ringing. It was Howard Keller.



"Did you have a nice flight?"



"Yes, thanks."



"I thought you'd like to know that I've spoken to the two banks about the Seventh Avenue deal."



"And?"



His voice was vibrant. "They're jumping at it."



Lara was elated. "I told you! This is going to be a big one. I want you to start assembling a team of architects, builders - our construction group - the works."



"Right. I'll talk to you tomorrow." She replaced the receiver and thought about Howard Keller. He was so dear. I'm so lucky. He's always there for me. I have to find someone wonderful for him.



Philip Adler was always nervous before playing. He had rehearsed with the orchestra in the morning, and had a light lunch, and then, to take his mind off the concert, had gone to see an English movie. As he watched the picture, his mind was filled with the music he was going to play that evening. He was unaware that he was drumming his fingers on the arm of his seat until the person next to him said, "Would you mind stopping that awful sound?"



"I beg your pardon," Philip said politely.



He got up and left the theater and roamed the streets of Amsterdam. He visited the Rijksmuseum, and he strolled through the Botanical Gardens of the Free University, and window-shopped along the P.C. Hooftstraat. At four o'clock he went back to his hotel to take a nap. He was unaware that Lara Cameron was in the suite directly above him.



At 7:00 P.M. Philip arrived at the artists' entrance of the Concertgebouw, the lovely old theater in the heart of Amsterdam. The lobby was already crowded with early arrivals.



Backstage, Philip was in his dressing room, changing into tails. The director of the Concertgebouw bustled into the room.



"We're completely sold out, Mr. Adler! And we had to turn away so many people. If it were possible for you to stay another day or two, I would...I know you are fully booked...I will talk to Mr. Ellerbee about your return here next year and perhaps..."



Philip was not listening. His mind was focused on the recital that lay ahead. The director finally shrugged apologetically and bowed his way out. Philip played the music over and over in his mind. A page knocked at the dressing-room door.



"They're ready for you onstage, Mr. Adler."



"Thank you."



It was time. Philip rose to his feet. He held out his hands. They were trembling slightly. The nervousness before playing never went away. It was true of all the great pianists - Horowitz, Rubinstein, Serkin. Philip's stomach was churning, and his heart was pounding. Why do I put myself through this agony? he asked himself. But he knew the answer. He took one last look in the mirror, then stepped out of the dressing room, and walked through the long corridor, and started to descend the thirty-three steps that led onto the stage. There was a spotlight on him as he moved toward the piano. The applause grew thunderous. He sat down at the piano, and as if by magic, his nervousness disappeared. It was as though another person were taking his place, someone calm, and poised, and completely in charge. He began to play.



Lara, seated in the audience, felt a thrill as she watched Philip walk out on the stage. There was a presence about him that was mesmerizing. I am going to marry him, Lara thought. I know it. She sat back in her seat and let his playing wash over her.



The recital was a triumph, and afterward the greenroom was packed. Philip had long ago learned to divide the crowd invited to the greenroom into two groups: the fans and other musicians. The fans were always enthusiastic. If the performance was a success, the congratulations of the other musicians were cordial. If it was a failure, their congratulations were very cordial.



Philip had many avid fans in Amsterdam, and on this particular evening the greenroom was crowded with them. He stood in the center of the room, smiling, signing autographs, and being patiently polite to a hundred strangers. Invariably someone would say, "Do you remember me?" And Philip would pretend to. "Your face looks so familiar..."



He remembered the story of Sir Thomas Beecham, who had hit upon a device to conceal his bad memory. When someone asked, "Do you remember me?" the great conductor would reply, "Of course, I do! How are you, and how is your father, and what is he doing?" The device worked well until a concert in London when a young woman in the greenroom said, "Your performance was wonderful, Maestro. Do you remember me?" and Beecham gallantly replied, "Of course, I do, my dear. How is your father, and what is he doing?" The young woman said, "Father is fine, thank you. And he's still king of England."



Philip was busily signing autographs, listening to the familiar phrases - "You made Brahms come alive for me!"..."I can't tell you how moved I was!"..."I have all your albums"..."Would you sign an autograph for my mother too? She's your biggest fan..." - when something made him look up. Lara was standing in the doorway, watching. His eyes widened in surprise. "Excuse me."



He made his way over to her and took her hand. "What a wonderful surprise! What are you doing in Amsterdam?"



Careful, Lara. "I had some business to attend to here, and when I heard you were giving a recital, I had to come." That was innocent enough. "You were wonderful, Philip."



"Thank you...I..." He stopped to sign another autograph. "Look, if you're free for supper..."



"I'm free," Lara said quickly.



They had supper at the Bali restaurant on Leidsestraat. As they entered the restaurant, the patrons rose and applauded. In the United States, Lara thought, the excitement would have been for me. But she felt a warm glow, simply being at Philip's side.



"It's a great honor to have you with us, Mr. Adler," the maitre d' said as he led them to their table.



"Thank you."



As they were being seated, Lara looked around at all the people staring admiringly at Philip. "They really love you, don't they?"



He shook his head. "It's the music they love. I'm just the messenger. I learned that a long time ago. When I was very young and perhaps a little arrogant, I gave a concert, and when I had finished my solo, there was tremendous applause, and I was bowing to the audience and smugly smiling at them, and the conductor turned to the audience and held up the score over his head to remind everyone that they were really applauding Mozart. It's a lesson I've never forgotten."



"Don't you ever get tired of playing the same music over and over, night after night?"



"No, because no two recitals are the same. The music may be the same, but the conductor is different, and the orchestra is different."



They ordered a rijsttafel dinner, and Philip said, "We try to make each recital perfect, but there's no such thing as a completely successful one because we're dealing with music that is always better than we are. We have to rethink the music each time in order to recreate the sound of the composer."



"You're never satisfied?"



"Never. Each composer has his own distinctive sound. Whether it's Debussy, Brahms, Haydn, Beethoven...our goal is to capture that particular sound."



Supper arrived. The rijsttafel was an Indonesian feast, consisting of twenty-one courses, including a variety of meats, fish, chicken, noodles, and two desserts.



"How can anyone eat all this?" Lara laughed.



"The Dutch have hearty appetites."



Philip found it difficult to take his eyes off Lara. He found himself ridiculously pleased that she was there. He had been involved with more than his share of beautiful women, but Lara was like no one he had ever known. She was strong and yet very feminine and totally unselfconscious about her beauty. He liked her throaty, sexy voice. In fact, I like everything about her, Philip admitted to himself.



"Where do you go from here?" Lara was asking.



"Tomorrow I'll be in Milan. Then Venice and Vienna, Paris and London, and finally New York."



"It sounds so romantic."



Philip laughed. "I'm not sure romantic is the word I would choose. We're talking about iffy airline schedules, strange hotels, and eating out in restaurants every night. I don't really mind because the act of playing is so wonderful. It's the 'say cheese' syndrome that I hate."



"What's that?"



"Being put on exhibit all the time, smiling at people you care nothing about, living your life in a world of strangers."



"I know what that's like," Lara said slowly.



As they were finishing supper, Philip said, "Look, I'm always keyed up after a concert. Would you care to take a ride on the canal?"



"I'd love to."



They boarded a canalbus that cruised the Amstel. There was no moon, but the city was alive with thousands of sparkling lights. The canal trip was an enchantment. A loudspeaker poured out information in four languages:



"We are now passing centuries-old merchants' houses with their richly decorated gables. Ahead are ancient church towers. There are twelve hundred bridges on the canals, all in the shade of magnificent avenues of elm trees..."



They passed the Smalste Huis - the narrowest house in Amsterdam - which was only as wide as the front door, and the Westerkerk with the crown of the Hapsburg emperor Maximilian, and they went under the wooden lift bridge over the Amstel and the Magere Brug - the skinny bridge - and passed scores of houseboats that served as home for hundreds of families.



"This is such a beautiful city," Lara said.



"You've never been here before?"



"No."



"And you're here on business."



Lara took a deep breath. "No."



He looked at her puzzled. "I thought you said..."



"I came to Amsterdam to see you."



He felt a sudden frisson of pleasure. "I...I'm very flattered."



"And I have another confession to make. I told you I was interested in classical music. That's not true."



A smile touched the corner of Philip's lips. "I know."



Lara looked at him in surprise. "You know?"



"Professor Meyers is an old friend of mine," he said gently. "He called to tell me that he was giving you a crash course on Philip Adler. He was concerned that you might have designs on me."



Lara said softly, "He was right. Are you involved with anyone?"



"You mean seriously?"



Lara was suddenly embarrassed. "If you're not interested, I'll leave and..."



He took her hand in his. "Let's get off at the next stop."



When they arrived back at the hotel, there were a dozen messages from Howard Keller. Lara put them in her purse, unread. At this moment nothing else in her life seemed important.



"Your room or mine?" Philip asked lightly.



"Yours."



There was a burning urgency in her.



It seemed to Lara that she had waited all her life for this moment. This was what she had been missing. She had found the stranger she was in love with. They reached Philip's room, and there was an urgency in both of them. Philip took her in his arms and kissed her softly and tenderly, exploring, and Lara murmured, "Oh, my God," and they began to undress each other.



The silence of the room was broken by a sudden clap of thunder outside. Slowly, gray clouds in the sky spread their skirts open, wider and wider, and soft rain began to fall. It started quietly and gently, caressing the warm air erotically, licking at the sides of buildings, sucking at the soft grass, kissing all the dark corners of the night. It was a hot rain, wanton and sensuous, sliding down slowly, slowly, until the tempo began to increase and it changed to a driving, pounding storm, fierce and demanding, an orgiastic beat in a steady, savage rhythm, plunging down harder and harder, moving faster and faster until it finally exploded in a burst of thunder. Suddenly, as quickly as it had started, it was over.



Lara and Philip lay in each other's arms, spent. Philip held Lara close, and he could feel the beating of her heart. He thought of a line he had once heard in a movie. "Did the earth move for you?" By God, it did, Philip thought. If she were music, she would be Chopin's Barcarolle or Schumann's Fantasy.



He could feel the soft contours of her body pressed against him, and he began to get aroused again.



"Philip..." Her voice was husky.



"Yes?"



"Would you like me to go with you to Milan?"



He found himself grinning. "Oh, my God, yes!"



"Good," Lara murmured. She leaned over him, and her soft hair started to trail down his lean, hard body.



It began to rain again.



When Lara finally returned to her room, she telephoned Keller. "Did I wake you up, Howard?"



"No." His voice was groggy. "I'm always up at four in the morning. What's going on there?"



Lara was bursting to tell him, but she said, "Nothing. I'm leaving for Milan."



"What? We aren't doing anything in Milan."



Oh, yes, we are, Lara thought happily.



"Did you see my messages?"



She had forgotten to look at them. Guiltily, she said, "Not yet."



"I've been hearing rumors about the casino."



"What's the problem?"



"There have been some complaints about the bidding."



"Don't worry about it. If there's any problem, Paul Martin will take care of it."



"You're the boss."



"I want you to send the plane to Milan. Have the pilots wait for me there. I'll get in touch with them at the airport."



"All right, but..."



"Go back to sleep."



At four o'clock in the morning, Paul Martin was wide-awake. He had left several messages on Lara's private answering machine at her apartment, but none of his calls had been returned. In the past, she had always let him know when she was going to be away. Something was happening. What was she up to? "Be careful, my darling," he whispered. "Be very careful."