Galilee. Clive Barker

visiting in the form of Mitchell Geary.

      ii

      It began to snow that afternoon, somewhere around two, the first flurry coming as Rachel returned from lunch. The prediction for the rest of the day, and into the night, was worsening by the hour: a blizzard was on its way.

      Business was slow; people were getting out of the city early, despite the fart that they could calculate the shopping hours left to Christmas morning on their fingers and toes. The manager of the store, a Mr. Erickson (a forty-year-old with the wan, weary elegance of a man half his age), was on the phone in the back office discussing with his boss the idea of closing up early, when a limo drew up outside and a young dark-haired man in a heavy coat, his collar pulled up, his eyes downcast as though he feared being recognized in the ten-yard journey from limo to store, strode to the door, stamped off the snow on the threshold and came in. Erickson was still in the back office, negotiating closing times. The other assistant, Noelle, was out fetching coffee. It fell to Rachel to serve the customer in the coat.

      She knew who he was, of course. Who didn’t? The classically handsome features—the chiseled cheekbones, the soulful eyes, the strong, sensual mouth, the unruly hair—appeared on some magazine or other every month: Mitchell Monroe Geary was one of the most watched, debated, swooned-over men in America. And here he was, standing in front of Rachel with flakes of snow melting on his dark eyelashes.

      What had happened then? Well, it had been a simple enough exchange. He’d come in, he explained, to look for a Christmas gift for his grandfather’s wife, Loretta. Something with diamonds, he’d said. Then, with a little shake of his head: “She loves diamonds.” Rachel showed him a selection of diamond pin brooches, hoping to God Erickson didn’t come off the phone too soon, and that the line at the coffee shop was long enough to delay Noelle’s return for a few minutes longer. Just to have the Geary prince to herself for a little while was all she asked.

      He declared that he liked both the butterfly and the star. She took them from their black velvet pillows for him to examine more closely. What was her opinion, he asked. Mine? she said. Yes, yours. Well, she said, surprised at how easy she found it to talk to him: if it’s for your grandmother, then I think the butterfly’s probably too romantic.

      He’d looked straight at her, with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “How do you know I’m not passionately in love with my grandmother?” he’d said.

      “If you were you wouldn’t still be looking for someone,” she’d replied, quick as silver.

      “And what makes you think I am?”

      Now it was she who smiled. “I read the magazines,” she said.

      “They never tell the truth,” he replied. “I live the life of a monk. I swear.” She said nothing to this, thinking she’d probably said far too much already: lost the sale, lost her job too, if Erickson had overheard the exchange. “I’ll take the star,” he said. “Thank you for the advice.”

      He made the purchase and left, taking his charm, his presence, and the glint in his eye away with him. She’d felt strangely cheated when he’d gone, as though he’d also taken something that belonged to her, absurd though that was. As he strode away from the store Noelle came in with the coffees.

      “Was that who I think it was?” she said, her eyes wide.

      Rachel nodded.

      “He’s even more gorgeous in the flesh, isn’t he?” Noelle remarked. Rachel nodded. “You’re drooling.”

      Rachel laughed. “He is handsome.”

      “Was he on his own?” Noelle said. She looked back out into the street as the limo was pulling away. “Was she with him?”

      “Who’s she?”

      “Natasha Morley. The model. The anorexic one.”

      “They’re all anorexic.”

      “They’re not happy,” Noelle remarked with unperturbable certainty. “You can’t be that thin and be happy.”

      “She wasn’t with him. He was buying something for his grandmother.”

      “Oh that bitch,” Noelle sniped. “The one who always dresses in white.”

      “Loretta.”

      “That’s right. Loretta. She’s his grandfather’s second wife.” Noelle was chatting as though the Geary family were next door neighbors. “I read something in People where they said she basically runs the family. Controls everybody.”

      “I can’t imagine anybody controlling him,” Rachel said, still staring out into the street.

      “But wouldn’t you love the opportunity?” Noelle replied.

      Erickson appeared from the back office at this juncture, in a foul temper. Despite the rapidly worsening storm they had been instructed to keep the store open until eight-thirty. This was a minor reprieve: two days before Christmas they were usually open till ten at night, to catch what Erickson called “guilty spouse business.” The more expensive the present, Erickson always said, the more acts of adultery the customer had committed during the preceding year. When in a particularly waspish mood, he wasn’t above quoting a number as the door slammed.

      

      So they dutifully stayed in the store, and the snow, as predicted, got worse. There was a smattering of business, but nothing substantial.

      And then, just as Erickson was starting to take the displays out of the window for the night, a man came in with an envelope for Rachel.

      “Mr. Geary says he’s sorry, he didn’t get your name,” the messenger told her.

      “My name’s Rachel.”

      “I’ll tell him. I’m his driver and his bodyguard, by the way. I’m Ralph.”

      “Hello, Ralph.”

      Ralph—who was six foot six if he was an inch, and looked as though he’d had a distinguished career as a punching bag—grinned. “Hello, Rachel,” he said. “I’m pleased to meet you.” He pulled off his leather glove and shook Rachel’s hand. “Well, goodnight folks.” He trudged back to the door. “Avoid the Tobin Bridge, by the way. There was a wreck and it’s all snarled up.”

      Rachel had no wish to open the envelope in front of Noelle or Erickson, but nor could she stand the idea of waiting another nineteen minutes until the store was closed, and she was out on the street alone. So she opened it. Inside was a short, scrawled note from Mitchell Geary, inviting her to the Algonquin Club for drinks the following evening, which was Christmas Eve.

      Three and a half weeks later, in a restaurant in New York, he gave her the diamond butterfly brooch, and told her he was falling in love.

       II

      This is as good a place as any to attempt a brief sketch of the Geary family. It’s a long, long drop from the topmost branch, where Rachel Pallenberg was poised the moment she became the wife of Mitchell Geary, to the roots of the family; and those roots are buried so deep into the earth I’m not sure I’m quite ready to disinter them. So instead allow me to concern myself—at least for now—with that part of the family tree that’s readily visible: the part that appears in the books about the rise and influence of the Geary engine.

      It quickly becomes apparent, even in a casual skimming of these volumes, that for several generations the Gearys have behaved (and have been treated) like a form of American royalty. Like royalty, they’ve always acted as though they were above the common law; this in both their private and their corporate dealings. Over the years several members of the dynasty have behaved in ways that would have guaranteed incarceration if