The Splendid Prize

By Marc Rangel

"George Russell, 56, and Cheryl Baker, 31, are involved in an unusual nonsexual relationship. Twice-divorced, hes on friendly terms with his second wife, Kelly, the adoptive mother of his 34-year-old son, and gun-shy of a third marital attempt. And Cheryl, a former 21-year-old college grad from Muncie, Indiana, had bad experiences with male students that have soured her on men in her age group.

George belongs to a New York creative group whose members are deeply involved with each other, which includes him in a purely sexual relationship with Penny, a successful painter who also has a popular Sex-Without-Fear TV show.

Then, when Cheryl falls in love with Bill, although she and George now have their own sex-without-fear relationshipit takes an ingenious decision to solve her problem!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 29, 2007
• ISBN: 9781477163184

Marc Rangel

Marc Rangel was born an expatriate U.S. citizen in Central America. At the time, Nicaragua was at the tail end of its Occupation by the U.S. Marines (1912 to 1933), and its entire Caribbean Coast was the remnant of a 250-year-old British protectorate known as Mosquitia, that was annexed by Nicaragua in 1894. Since “coming home” to the U.S. in 1950, he has lived in New York, where he has been a freelance writer; editor at several national magazines, including Us; editor at United Feature Syndicate (UFS) and later Special Assignments Correspondent in the U.S. and abroad; among other similar jobs. The Splendid Prize is one of a quartet of New York novels he has written.

Book preview

LOOKING BACK:

1979

ONE

Fifty-six, thirty-one … The words echoed in his mind like some mystic incantation, or a lucky combo for a numbers player.

Lying in bed, George Russell lazily reviewed his remarkable good fortune. If anyone had told him ten years ago, in 1979, that his life would be turned upside down and his stagnant career revitalized by the love of a 21-year-old ingenue from the Midwest, he would have laughed at such an absurdity.

There he was, a fairly successful jack-of-all-writing trades, features editor at Universal News Service (which billed itself as the second-largest feature syndicate in the world), occasional Washington consultant and confidante of peripheral political power brokers, quietly minding his own business—when along she’d come, waltzing into his life quite by chance, this charming young miss from the provinces who was less than half his age and two years younger than his own son!

He was suddenly struck by an incongruous thought: his mother had always believed in the power of love, which, in her words, like faith, can move mountains. She was right, of course, but he laughed aloud as he wondered what she would make of his May-December romance with Miss Cheryl Baker of Muncie, Indiana.

It had not, of course, been as simple as all that, and the mere mention of her name brought a wry, involuntary smile to his lips as he remembered the mix of pain and doubt and confusion along the road to happiness, and how it had all begun …

It was the winter of 1979, mid-January as he recalled, and, hard at work on a couple of features he was editing on deadline for one of the three services under his supervision, he’d almost not made it to the party.

Fridays were traditionally the busiest days at UNS, as George and the other five senior editors and their assistants battled to keep on top of the heavy flow of special Sunday features and weekend service packages that were fed electronically (or by the few remaining old-fashioned teletype machines) to their thousands of client papers across the country.

A little after 3 PM, the phone rang.

Russell, here! he’d barked into the receiver, ready to cut off the caller if it should prove to be a routine query. Sorry, but I’m on deadline.

Yes, I know, the caller said, as George recognized the voice as that of Craig Coleman’s, and I’m sorry to bust in like this. But Molly’s just received an SOS from her cousin Susie—the actress. You met her once, remember? Susie Perkins, blonde, good facial bones, good breeding, lots of moola. About six months ago? Anyway, she’s fairly new in town, just landed a role in an off-Broadway play, and is throwing a celebration party tonight and asked if we could help her round up some local ‘somebodies’ to help her impress her fellow cast members.

Uh-huh George grunted noncommittally.

As a twice-divorced bachelor whose romantic involvements were limited to short-term relationships or an occasional fling, he made it a rule to shy away from his friends’ parties, where longtime female friends would invariably try to introduce him to some wonderful woman or other. Besides, he was having enough trouble as it was with his current on-again-off-again girlfriend, Penny.

Aw, c’mon, Craig said cajolingly, it won’t be so bad. Most of the old crowd will be there, and Molly’d love to see you. You’re one of her favorites, y’know. Besides, all work and no play, etcetera. Anyway, just imagine you’re going over to Bradley’s to hoist a few with the UNS gang after work—and, as the clincher, I guarantee the company will be much more exciting.

Okay, anything for Molly, George said resignedly, grinning in appreciation of his friend’s blarney. Time and place?

Good, won’t hold you any longer, old buddy, Craig responded briskly, giving him an East 57th Street address, adding: Anytime you can make it, after seven PM.

Glued to his terminal, using the blinking cursor like a magic blue pencil, George kept cutting, transposing and revising the copy on the black-and-green screen as the wall clock facing his desk ticked away the crucial last-minute chunks of time. Damn! he thought angrily, as he spotted a misused your for you’re, and punched the wordcheck key for the SEARCH-and-REPLACE function. Is it only my imagination, or are all our writers just a bunch of computer literate illiterates?

Then, at 5 PM, the red hot-line phone on his desk that connected him directly with Jake Wilson, whose Washington Whipping-Post daily column—with 1200 client papers—was the syndicate’s hottest feature, rang shrilly.

As usual, it was Jake’s gravel-voiced hatchet-woman, Ruby Rye. The opening salvo of Jake’s three-part expose on a Southern congressman with rumored connections to a shady televangelist was due for release on Saturday, and Ruby was afraid it wasn’t punchy enough.

Oh, I dunno, Ruby, George said, adopting a mock breezy tone of voice. Jake’s caught the poor guy with his greasy fingers stuck in a vat of hot bucks siphoned off from a phony book deal, slugged him with a documented case of child molestation that was hushed up ten years ago, and claims to have a batch of S&M pix showing him crouching under the whip of a leather-clad dominatrix. Where’s your sense of Christian charity?

Despite her menacing voice and salty language, Ruby was really just your standard hardboiled middle-aged female reporter who had come up the hard way before the advent of feminism. She’d just never put aside the brass knuckles she’d learned to use to defend her personal turf in the rough-and-tumble arena of big-time journalism. George respected both her judgment and expertise, knew that she was the unsung partner in Jake’s successful career, and got a bang out of teasing her.

As Dom DeLouise once cracked, she said, I gotta no shame, baby. Also, no mercy. Not where slimebags are concerned.

Ouch, George responded. All I can say is—I’m glad I’m not Congressman X!

I’ve always said you’re just an old softie, Ruby growled good-naturedly, but if you think we’ve planted enough dynamite up your friend, the public servant’s, rear end, I’ll let it go as is.

Believe me, Ruby, George said, with a dry laugh, you have! After Jake’s story hits the newsstands, they’ll be picking up the pieces of the congressman’s blasted career with a giant vacuum cleaner. ‘Bye, toots.

Toots to you, too, lover! Ruby snarled, slamming the receiver in its cradle with her usual trademark gusto.

George gave a mental sigh of relief as he hung up the phone. Usually, Ruby’s Friday-afternoon last-minute calls played havoc with his schedule, and ended up throwing everybody’s schedule off down the editorial hierarchical chain. Glancing up at his colleagues he grinned as he saw the looks of relief on their faces. Karen Brown, his assistant, rolled her eyes without taking them off her terminal, and gray-haired Bo Jackson, the sports editor and an ex-WW II flyer, made a circle with his thumb and index finger. Beyond their inner-circle desks he heard a couple of muted whoops from the younger assistant editors.

But brief as it was, Ruby’s call threw him off his pace. Then one of the assistant editors ran into a glitch in his terminal, which meant more wasted time trying to find a free terminal at a sister service. And no sooner was this problem solved than George got a call from the Sunday editor of The Detroit News, a major client, screaming bloody murder because the weekend package of features he’d just received did not include a promised Op-Ed piece on the effects of U.S.-Japan trade problems on the so-called rustbelt states.

By the time he’d placated the editor with the promise of a make-good substitute by one of his favorite writers for his paper’s following Sunday edition, and answered a couple of other last-minute calls from other client papers, it was 7:15 and he’d forgotten all about Craig’s invitation to Susie Perkins’ cocktail party.

So, when Karen and Bo asked him to come along to Bradley’s on Lexington Avenue, the UNS crew’s friendly neighborhood Irish bar of choice near their Pan Am Building office headquarters, George gladly trotted along.

It was only after his second Dewar’s on the rocks that he belatedly remembered Craig’s call. His first reaction was to stay put. He was just a tad tired. But because he prided himself on being a man of his word, he turned to Karen, at his side, and said with a grimace of regret, Sorry, kid—just remembered a prior obligation. See ya, Monday! S’long, Bo. Take good care of Brenda Starr, here! He dropped a tenner on the table, the two of them shooed him off, and George sprinted for the door.

Luck was on his side. He flagged down a cab without any trouble which, for a Friday night in Manhattan, was a minor miracle. In another stroke of luck, the cabdriver—a garrulous but likable young Israeli immigrant who said he was studying computer programming at NYU—made all the lights, and dropped him off at the 57th Street address in less than ten minutes.

Susie’s apartment was a duplex with the entrance on the second floor. As a smiling young brunette he did not know opened the door, George was engulfed in the familiar sounds of a party in full swing. He heard the hum of disjointed conversations, stabs of laughter, and the throbbing staccato beat of Mick Jagger’s Jumpin’ Jack Flash echoing from hidden stereo speakers.

Hi, the young woman said, waving a highball glass in one hand, I’m Cindy. I guess you’re a friend of Susie’s cousin—come on in!

Yes, he said, entering and closing the door behind him. George Russell. I’m an old friend of Molly and Craig’s.

Are you somebody I should know about? she asked in a friendly way that was more humorous than offensive, looking up at him, as she linked her arm with his and led him into the foyer.

George smiled. Not really, he said. I’m what is known as a behind-the-scenes man. I’m a syndicate feature editor.

Cindy’s green eyes widened in mock surprise.

Oh-h, she said, you mean like—the Mafia? You’re not what they call a ‘hit’ man, are you?

No, I’m afraid not! George said, genuinely amused by the girl’s offbeat humor. He detected no guile in her voice at all. Sorry to disappoint you, but most people who know me consider me quite trustworthy. Although, he added with a mischievous grin, remembering Jake Wilson’s brass-knuckled column that he’d edited that afternoon, some people in Washington might be calling me an editorial accomplice to a media monster on Monday morning.

Cindy squeezed his arm affectionately. I think some monsters are cuddly, she said, giving him another of her dazzling smiles.

But before he could fathom the meaning, if any, behind her cryptic remark, a husky young man in fashionable chinos and a tight blue-and-white rugby T-shirt came up to them, slipped his arm around Cindy’s waist, nodded pleasantly at George, and guided her toward the bar at the left of the foyer.

Nice meeting you, George! Cindy said to him over her shoulder. Now I can tell my friends at the theater that I met an honest-to-goodness political hit man! Take care, now!

With the young actress’ abrupt departure, George began to take stock of his surroundings. The large foyer itself was empty of occupants, except for the bar. Next to the bar was a semispiral stairway with a wrought-iron railing, that led to the floor above. Turning his gaze away from the bar, he saw that the foyer led to a rectangular conversation pit, reached by a step that ran the width of the living room. The main feature of the pit was a large, lush-looking purple velvet circular couch that surrounded a small, gurgling fountain illuminated with alternating red, white and blue lights concealed beneath its marble rim.

The far side of the pit was decorated with Scandinavian furniture awash with throw pillows, elegant drapes with a paisley design flanked a pair of French windows equipped with banquettes, and there were original prints strategically hung across the walls. Craig was right—Susie’s place reeked of money, but in a muted manner.

The pit and the rest of the living room were aswarm with well-dressed people in casual attire, mostly in their twenties, although here and there George spotted the familiar, older faces of his friends. Craig Coleman, at the far side of the living room smiled, shouted a greeting that was lost in the swirling sound of Jagger’s voice, and motioned him to come over. Molly waved at him also, and George blew her a kiss, then glancing at the people in the pit, he walked toward the step.

Directly in front of him was a pretty, red-haired young woman, animatedly talking to a heavy-set man seated next to her, who looked to be in his thirties. She was dressed in a sleeveless black sheath that accentuated her fair skin, and the sole ornament she wore was the cultured-pearl choker that graced her neck. She appeared very young (about 18 or 19, he judged), and as he neared the couch he saw that she was just a tad plumper than she should have been, which, he thought, was a pity—because it robbed her of scoring a 10 in her physical category.

Nevertheless, she had caught his attention, hadn’t she? It seemed to George that she exuded an air of charming innocence, a rarity in New York, in his experience.

As he came abreast of her, the young woman looked up and their eyes met. She gave him a friendly smile and, as he returned it with a slight nod of acknowledgment, George saw that she had the brightest, most enchanting hazel eyes he’d ever seen.

TWO

Glad you could make it, Craig said, giving him a friendly punch on the shoulder. I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.

He said he’d come, didn’t he? Molly Coleman chided her husband, as George bussed her on the cheek and gave her a quick embrace. You men have such little faith in each other! On the other hand—if there’s one thing I know, it’s that when George gives his word, he keeps it.

That’s my girl! George said, beaming at Molly as he slipped his arm around her slender waist. I can always be sure to have you in my corner when George-bashing time rolls around. The biggest mistake I ever made was letting Mr. Magoo, here, snatch you up before we had a chance to meet.

I don’t know if I like this kind of talk! Craig jokingly protested, blinking exaggeratedly behind his thick-lensed horn-rimmed glasses. Just admit you had your chance and botched it, fella.

Bunched in a tight little circle, the rest of the group grinned at the familiar exchanges.

Releasing Molly, George glanced at the others. Look, you guys, we’ve got to stop meeting like this. Otherwise, people will start calling us the Chelsea Irregulars Traveling Company.

Or the Barnstorming Blowhards! Craig said, chuckling gleefully at his own joke.

Seated on a banquette, Allie Lewis, blonde and fetching in pink satin, held up her hand. Now, wait a minute! As Molly always says, we’re family—remember? We like one another’s company. What’s wrong with that?

Absolutely nothing, darling Allie, George said, smiling at her. I didn’t mean to start a war of words.

Standing next to his wife Allie (who used her own last name for professional reasons), Ben Godowski said, At the risk of introducing a non sequitur—I liked your Op-Ed piece on the Iranian mess in last Sunday’s Times. Couldn’t have said it better myself.

Mim Macdonald, her long chestnut hair tied in a loose ponytail, smiled approvingly. Mullahs Running Amok, she intoned in the grave, dignified tone of voice that masked her warm nature. Great title. A senior editor at Sociopolitical Review, a latter-day successor to The Reporter magazine, she and George often consulted each other about their political writings.

Where’s Grant? he asked. I can’t remember the last time I saw one of you without the other.

Mim wrinkled her nose. He’s having muse trouble, she said, Can’t seem to get the second act of his play right. Then, glancing around at the others, she added: It seems okay to me—but you know how stubborn he can be.

And speaking of inseparable couples, Molly interjected, tapping George on the chest for emphasis, what’s with you and Penny? Have you two been acting silly, again?

He had been hoping nobody would bring this up, even as he knew it was inevitable in such a tight-knit group as theirs.

You know how emotional Penny can be, he said, hoping that his lighthearted approach would quell any further inquiries. And, yes—we’ve been silly again, as you put it, Molly. We’ve had another of our disagreements, and she’s in a snit. But she’ll get over it and everything will soon be back to normal, okay?

He smiled at her to signal that he wasn’t worried, even as he knew that things would never be normal between him and the woman he had teasingly called Pretty Penny in happier days.

I know a secret, Allie chimed in, a mischievous look on her patrician face. But since we’re such good friends, I’ll tell you what it is—if you promise to behave yourself when what’s going to happen, happens.

George gave her an inquiring look, and had the sinking feeling that he was not going to like whatever it was she was going to tell him. He hated surprises, and wanted none tonight of all nights. He began to regret having let Craig gull him into accepting the last-minute invitation, which he could easily have turned down without any fuss.

Penelope’s going to be here later on, Allie said, using Penny’s given name, as she had from their early roomie days. She called me from Philadelphia this afternoon. Had to rush there this morning on some sort of family emergency, but said she wouldn’t miss tonight’s party for anything. She waggled her finger at George. She said she was very foolish to hassle you about whatever it was she hassled you about, misses you terribly, and wants to make up. She’s nuts about you, George. But I suppose you know that.

He’d been right, after all. The last person he wanted to see tonight was Penny. But, of course, he’d have to muddle through as best he could. Family is family, and he couldn’t let them down.

Yes, he said to Allie, giving her as brave a smile as he could under the circumstances.

Besides his Chelsea friends, George spotted a few other people he knew, and after he’d circulated a while he went over to the bar, where Craig Coleman was deep in conversation with a tall, sexy young woman in a strapless red dress, whose blonde hair cascaded about her bare shoulders. As he came up to them, Craig introduced her as their hostess.

Love your place, George said to Susie Perkins. I like your party, too. It’s the perfect place to relax after a hard day’s work.

Thanks, Susie replied. I like it, too. But I’m the one who should thank you for coming. Or maybe, she added, turning to Craig I should thank cousin Molly, and Craig, here, for making my party such a success. Besides a few acting friends I really don’t know anyone in New York, and I was terrified no one would show up tonight!

She seemed genuinely happy that so many people had come to her impromptu party, and George thought that for a rich young woman—who, in addition, was also attractive and sexy—she was very friendly and unassuming. Not one to be too easily impressed, he was surprised to realize that he liked her.

The three of them chatted for a while, then Susie spotted a latecomer whom she knew and rushed off to greet him and, tugging at his sleeve to catch his attention, Craig motioned with his head toward the spiral stairway.

Talk about family, he said, grinning broadly. C’mon—I want you to meet my cousin. Second cousin, really. Cheryl Baker—from Muncie, Indiana, of all places! A Midwestern branch of the family I never even knew existed until I got this mysterious phone call two days ago. Anyway, she’s the genuine article. A real, live honest-to-goodness kinswoman. He grinned again, as they reached the stairway, and lowered his voice. Smart kid, too—even if she is from Muncie.

Glancing up, George saw the little redhead he’d spotted in the conversation pit looking down at them, her smiling face beaming with the sort of expectation he hadn’t observed for years in anyone in New York above the age of ten.

She was standing halfway up the narrow stairway, leaning easily against the wall, the toe of one of her black pumps resting against the bottom of the wrought-iron railing, a highball glass in one hand. She made such a pleasing picture that George regretted not having brought his pocket camera. For a fleeting moment he wondered if it was an artful pose, but quickly dismissed the idea.

Cheryl, Craig said, as they climbed the stairs in single file, this is my good friend—George Russell.

Hello, George Russell, she said, looking directly at him with her bright hazel eyes. Her voice was low, with an agreeable lilt he assumed was Midwestern and, in any event, was more pleasing to his ear than the flat, nasal New York diction he was used to. I’ve heard a lot about you from Molly. Good things. Are they true?

Okay, then, Craig said, turning to retrace his steps, I’ll leave you two to get acquainted. See you later.

I should hope so, George said to Cheryl, leaning one elbow against the railing. But, then, I don’t know exactly what part of my long and varied history Molly’s told you.

For one so young, he thought, she’s pretty direct. Again, he wondered if her air of innocence was a put-on.

Oh? she said, arching an eyebrow. About the writing part, of course. She says you’re a successful writer, with loads of published material. She’s very proud of you, it seems. She paused, giving him a quizzical look. Are you two having an affair, or something?

The question took him by surprise.

Good God, no! he said, trying not to sound too shocked. Craig’s my friend, for one thing. I don’t know about Muncie, and it’s true New York’s got a bad reputation in the morals department, but as for me, I live by certain ethical principles—and one of them is that I don’t fool around with my friends’ wives. He gave her a grin to show he wasn’t angry. As for other guys’ wives, well, that’s another matter.

I’m sorry if I offended you, she said, sounding genuinely contrite and seeming to lose just a smidgeon of her composure. I didn’t mean to, honest. She flashed him a timid smile, hunching her shoulders in a little-girl gesture. You know, I’m just your standard little hick in the big town for the first time, and I find a lot of what’s going on, well—just a bit confusing.

My God, he thought, she is just a scared kid, after all.

George nodded reassuringly, giving her a long look. Except for the slight pudginess he had first noticed, she was quite lovely, up close. Her long, soft, reddish-brown hair, caught loosely in the back with a wide clip, framed her oval face perfectly. She had thin, shapely lips and a small nose and those marvelous, hazel eyes that had first caught his attention—topped off by naturally long lashes and the two neatly groomed horizontal parentheses that were her eyebrows.

He noticed there was no traffic on the narrow stairway and, on an impulse, he took her by the arm and motioned for her to sit beside him on the steps.

You have great eyes, he said by way of changing the conversation, as they adjusted themselves on the steps. The Mayans have a saying, that the eyes are the mirrors of the soul. Did you know that?

Being the shorter of the two, Cheryl was seated one stair above his, so that they faced each other squarely. Her legs were drawn up under her chin, demurely covered by her skirt, with her arms wrapped together around them. She had taken off her shoes, which were neatly placed beside her stockinged feet. Pleased by George’s unexpected compliment, her countenance brightened.

I thought it was the Chinese who were supposed to have said that, she remarked, frowning slightly in concentration.

Again, George was caught by surprise, as much by her poise as by her sudden shift in attitude. Gone was the scared kid of a moment ago, replaced now by the self-assured, knowledgeable sophisticate.

You’re probably right, he said, smiling in spite of himself, amused by the earnest look on her face. Or maybe the Arabs. I’ve forgotten the actual source for the moment—but I suppose we can both agree that it was said by some exotic people rather than by us pragmatic Anglo-Saxons, okay?

Okay, she said, nodding her head in agreement and emitting a delicious little laugh that George translated as a manifestation of her pleasure at having bested a certified New York intellectual at his own game.

With the ice definitely broken by now, the two of them began an animated discussion that in the next twenty minutes roamed the byways of trivia, all the way from the intricacies of the New York subway system, and the relative merits of The Rolling Stones and Grand Funk Railroad as rock icons, to the exploits of Charles V of the Holy Roman Empire, a particular favorite of George’s. To those who observed them, they seemed an odd couple—the graying, worldly professional writer-editor-political observer and the fresh-faced, wide-eyed Midwestern ingenue, going head-to-head in a cultural clash of generational proportions. What could they possibly have in common? Allie, for one, wondered. Molly thought of Penny, and wondered, too. Others took the cynical view—it’s always open season in New York and she’s young, desirable and available.

Meanwhile, the participants were enjoying themselves immensely. Cheryl decided that she had never met anyone as interesting as this famous friend of her cousin Craig’s, nor had she met an older person who had ever treated her as an equal, the way he did. For his part, George was entranced with this unusually perceptive and paradoxical young woman, who, despite her bland prom-queen appearance, was both knowledgeable beyond her tender years as well as confident and assertive in an unaggressive way he found particularly appealing.

Do you know, she was saying now, what it is I like about you, George?

He shook his head.

For a smart guy, she said, leaning over to tap him on the cheek with an index finger in an intimate gesture, you’re very unassuming. You don’t throw your weight around. You make me feel that you’re actually listening to me. That what I say is important to you. That’s nice.

Don’t sell yourself short, Cheryl, he said, touched by her appreciation of such a small favor. You’re a very interesting person. Luckily, he’d stopped just short of adding for one so young. He just knew she would have been insulted.

Again, she tapped him on the cheek.

There’s one other thing I like about you, she said, leaning her head sideways and cradling it on her knees. You’re the only man I’ve met here tonight, or, actually … now that I think of it … at any of the parties I’ve been to since I came to New York, who hasn’t used any big words in an effort to impress me with how smart you are.

Oh, yes, the big words, he said, marveling again at her perceptiveness and, thinking, she’ll go far, this one. If, that is, he added as an afterthought—she can beat the odds. Bright young women from the provinces, he knew, could be quite vulnerable in big, bad New York.

On an impulse, George tapped one of her stockinged toes with a finger.

Tell me, lovely Cheryl from Muncie—how come you’re so smart? And how old are you, anyway? Eighteen, nineteen? Still in college?

Hey, hey! she said, wiggling her toes and emitting one of her delicious little laughs. "What’s with the questions, all of a sudden? I thought we were having so much fun