Kate celebrated her fifty-sixth birthday alone with Tony at the house on Fifth Avenue. She thought, This handsome twenty-four-year-old man across the table can’t be my son. I’m too young. And he was toasting her, “To m-my f-fantastic m-mother. Happy b-birthday!”
“You should make that to my fantastic old mother.” Soon I’ll be retiring, Kate thought, but my son will take my place. My son!
At Kate’s insistence, Tony had moved into the mansion on Fifth Avenue.
“The place is too bloody large for me to rattle around in alone,” Kate told him. “You’ll have the whole east wing to yourself and all the privacy you need.” It was easier for Tony to give in than to argue.
Tony and Kate had breakfast together every morning, and the topic of conversation was always Kruger-Brent, Ltd. Tony marveled that his mother could care so passionately for a faceless, soulless entity, an amorphous collection of buildings and machines and bookkeeping figures. Where did the magic lie? With all the myriad mysteries of the world to explore, why would anyone want to waste a lifetime accumulating wealth to pile on more wealth, gathering power that was beyond power? Tony did not understand his mother. But he loved her. And he tried to live up to what she expected of him.
The Pan American flight from Rome to New York had been uneventful. Tony liked the airline. It was pleasant and efficient. He worked on his overseas acquisitions reports from the time the plane took off, skipping dinner and ignoring the stewardesses who kept offering him drinks, pillows or whatever else might appeal to their attractive passenger.
“Thank you, miss. I’m fine.”
“If there’s anything at all, Mr. Blackwell…”
“Thank you.”
A middle-aged woman in the seat next to Tony was reading a fashion magazine. As she turned a page, Tony happened to glance over, and he froze. There was a picture of a model wearing a ball gown. It was Dominique. There was no question about it. There were the high, delicate cheekbones and the deep-green eyes, the luxuriant blond hair. Tony’s pulse began to race.
“Excuse me,” Tony said to his seat companion. “May I borrow that page?”
Early the following morning, Tony called the dress shop and got the name of their advertising agency. He telephoned them. “I’m trying to locate one of your models,” he told the switchboard operator. “Could you—”
“One moment, please.”
A man’s voice came on. “May I help you?”
“I saw a photograph in this month’s issue of Vogue. A model advertising a ball gown for the Rothman stores. Is that your account?”
“Yes.”
“Can you give me the name of your model agency?”
“That would be the Carleton Blessing Agency.” He gave Tony the telephone number.
A minute later, Tony was talking to a woman at the Blessing Agency. “I’m trying to locate one of your models,” he said. “Dominique Masson.”
“I’m sorry. It is our policy not to give out personal information.” And the line went dead.
Tony sat there, staring at the receiver. There had to be a way to get in touch with Dominique. He went into Brad Rogers’s office.
“Morning, Tony. Coffee?”
“No, thanks. Brad, have you heard of the Carleton Blessing Model Agency?”
“I should think so. We own it.”
“What?”
“It’s under the umbrella of one of our subsidiaries.”
“When did we acquire it?”
“A couple of years ago. Just about the time you joined the company. What’s your interest in it?”
“I’m trying to locate one of their models. She’s an old friend.”
“No problem. I’ll call and—”
“Never mind. I’ll do it. Thanks, Brad.”
A feeling of warm anticipation was building up inside Tony.
Late that afternoon, Tony went uptown to the offices of the Carleton Blessing Agency and gave his name. Sixty seconds later, he was seated in the office of the president, a Mr. Tilton.
“This is certainly an honor, Mr. Blackwell. I hope there’s no problem. Our profits for the last quarter—”
“No problem. I’m interested in one of your models. Dominique Masson.”
Tilton’s face lighted up. “She’s turned out to be one of our very best. Your mother has a good eye.”