Beauty Queen by Patricia Nell Warren Page A

the tall window framed a beautiful view of the East River. At that moment, an Exxon barge was going upriver toward Bronx Kills, and he could almost hear the cries of the gulls wheeling over the barge's decks. The bold swags of drapery were reproductions of antique blue-and-white linsey-woolsey with the eagle pattern.
    In one comer, as a setting for informal conversation, he had two long rosewood sofas upholstered in the blue-and-white eagle fabric. The huge coffee table, made of an old ship's hatch cover, was good for spreading out plans and blueprints. In the corner itself loomed one of the finest old ship's figureheads in private hands—carved by Isaac Poole of Massachusetts, it was from the Friendship of Salem. The robed woman, with her prim little hat and her hands clasping a lily to her bosom, always reminded Bill of his wife, who had breasted her way through the storm waves of life with just that same virginal look.
    The walls, painted a deep rich blue, displayed the iceberg's tip of his collection of New York paintings and early photographs. His favorite was the Jacob Ryker hanging behind his desk—it showed the harbor and Battery Park ghostly in the moonlight, with a sky swimming in clouds shaped like ships and horses. But there was also the massed display of framed early photographs of downtown New York, among them some priceless Prevost originals from the 1850s. These, too, were only a glimpse of the treasures that lay in his special climate-controlled file—guarded both as treasures and as irreplaceable reference material for his work. It was the finest collection of old photos outside of the New York Historical Society. All of the paintings and photographs were, of course, burglar-alarm-wired into the wall.
    One photograph showed South Street in the days of the tall ships, with bowsprits thrusting jauntily up over the cobblestoned street, bales and barrels stacked on the sidewalk, and men coming and going from the arched doorways of a stately brick building whose sign read PEAKE & STURGIS. This building, now a gutted hulk, was the one that he had closed on yesterday, together with the block of old stores and tenements that surrounded it. The deal of his dreams— threatened now by Jeannie's decision to go back into politics.
    The two men followed their morning ritual of going into the small kitchenette and making themselves two cups of coffee from the Mr. Coffee-maker and the supply of fresh-ground Colombian blend. (They had started this ritual after the young and liberated Mrs. Voeller announced sweetly but firmly that she would no longer make their coffee.)
    Then they settled down on the sofas with their cups of English bone china. As they talked about South Street, Bill asked himself whether he should bring up the subject of financing Jeannie's campaign. He knew Jeannie would ask A1 about it herself. It would look strange if he, Bill, didn't talk about it.
    "Al," said Bill, "not to change the subject, but Jeannie has been asking me about a loan for her campaign. What do you think?"
    "Well.. Al was thinking. "She already called me last night and talked about it. We're heavily committed right now. But after all, she's our little girl."
    Bill felt trapped.
    "Why don't you look at the figures and let me know what you think we can manage?" he asked.
    "Sure thing" said Al. "It's hard to take in ... the idea of Jeannie in the governor's mansion, isn't it? But the more I think of it . .
    After they'd had their coffee, Al went back to his office.
    Bill signed some letters, looked quickly through some correspondence, made a couple of calls to the company lawyer. Then he headed downstairs again, eager to get to South Street.
    He headed his gray Lancia down East River Drive.
    The morning rush traffic had slacked off, and he drove fast, weaving in and out of the traffic. Some people teased him about being declasse, driving alone like that, when he could afford a limo and a chauffeur, but he replied simply that he