Once More With Feeling Read Online Free PDF Page A

arrived next. Missy
Adamson--who years before had debated excising the "i" in her first
name to make it more politically correct--was a steel magnolia from
the heart of Dixie. Behind the Confederate cotillion smile, the
stiffly-sprayed dark hair, and the sorghum-sweet accent was a woman
with graduate degrees in three languages and the canny ability to
use them in furthering her husband's career. Richard Adamson, with
a smile as powerful as Owen's and sandy hair that hadn't yet turned
gray, was a former congressman who was busily positioning himself
to become the next Democratic governor of New York.
    Richard kissed Elisabeth on the lips, a
chaste, political kiss that was only slightly more intimate than a
handshake at a crowded rally. Elisabeth had dated Richard when she
was an English Literature major at Mt. Holyoke and he was prelaw at
Yale. Even then he had been intent on running for office someday,
and he had limited himself to girls with pristine, proper
backgrounds. On the third date she had begun to understand that
behind Richard's quick wit and sincere desire to change the world
dwelled a man who was capable of marrying her solely because her
bland patrician beauty was an ideal complement to his. They had
remained friends despite the fact that she had refused to go out
with him again.
    "Every time I come here I realize Owen
didn't do his best work for me." He turned up the wattage on his
smile to be certain Elisabeth knew he was teasing. "This house is
spectacular. Ours is merely magnificent."
    Richard and Missy had hired Owen's firm to
design and build a "country house" in another North Shore
community. Their home stood on six acres overlooking Long Island
Sound, and three years ago it had garnered Owen a prize from the
American Institute of Architects.
    "I'll consider a trade," Elisabeth said.
"Our view of Manhattan isn't nearly as perfect as yours." In
reality, the Whitfields had no view of Manhattan.
    "I'll warn you, you can't take a thing with
you. I want it exactly as it is."
    "The weeds in my flower garden and the lint
in my dryer?"
    He laughed. "Sorry, the deal's off."
    Owen ushered the O'Keefes and Adamsons into
the library, where a fire roared and the caterer had begged to
serve hors d'oeuvres. Before Elisabeth could make certain the first
tray was on its way, the doorbell rang again. She waved away
Georgina and answered the door herself.
    Attila Molnar smothered her in an expansive
hug, followed closely by his wife Lorraine. They were similarly
dumpy and good-humored, but Attila was a shrewd businessman who had
expanded his father's tiny Hungarian language newspaper into a
chain of tiny English language newspapers that stretched from sea
to shining sea.
    "Got a story for you," he told Elisabeth as
the three of them walked, arms around each others' waists, toward
the library.
    She murmured her interest. Attila was the
editor of the Paumanok Sentinel , the paper for which
Elisabeth wrote an occasional feature story. Several years ago,
after turning over management of the syndicate to his oldest son,
Attila had taken over the Sentinel as a hedge against retirement.
Then he had patiently convinced Elisabeth to write for him whenever
time permitted. It was the one thing she did that had absolutely
nothing to do with her role as Owen Whitfield's wife.
    Elisabeth untangled herself from the Molnars
and led them into the library, where greetings were exchanged. She
got them drinks and made sure everyone else was comfortable before
she drifted back to Attila's side. The conversation centered around
the room itself, with its dual Palladian windows looking over the
terrace and formal garden, and the white marble fireplace with a
fanciful curved mantel that echoed the arch of the windows. It was
Owen's favorite room, one where he sometimes sat for hours with
papers and books strewn over the mahogany table.
    "I have never seen a house with such perfect
views . . . except maybe ours," Missy said. "It's like you frame
every