by Mary McBride
Then, when the sun disappeared and the colors bled out into darkness, Treena switched from beer to the hard stuff. Sooner or later she'd say, “You see Billy gets to bed all right, Bobby, will you? I'll be back in a while.” He was probably seven or eight years old before he realized the expression “in a while” wasn't a synonym for “at dawn.”
He heard the door of the mud room open and watched Angela's gaze swing across the backyard before it zeroed in on him. She stood there a moment, as if trying to decide whether or not to join him, before she started toward him. Well, hell. He'd spent half the day trying to convince her to listen to him, but now his mood had taken a sunset turn, and talking was the last thing he wanted to do.
Angela had a walk like no other woman he knew. A heads-up, eye-on-the-target, purposeful stride that was accompanied by the most subtle, unaffected, fetching sway of her backside. A train coming straight down the track with a waggling caboose. He loved watching her. God, he loved watching her.
“There you are,” she said, stepping into the gazebo, giving it an appreciative glance. “This is lovely, isn't it?”
“Pull up a piece of bench,” Bobby said. “I was just watching the sunset.”
“You hate sunsets,” she said, lowering herself onto the bench several safe feet away from him.
“I hate Texas sunsets,” he said. “This is Illinois, where they're kinder and gentler and not half as pretty.”
She sighed and stared west. Her hair took on some of the sky's burnished gold. She'd let it grow during their separation. Maybe that was a California thing. Maybe she just hadn't found a good hairdresser. Whatever the reason, his fingers fairly itched to bury themselves in all that rich warmth. He wished she wore it piled high on top of her head so he could pull the pins out, one by one by one.
“Congratulations, by the way,” she said.
“For what?”
“Mrs. Riordan just announced her intention to come downstairs for dinner every evening. You should have gone into sales, Bobby, instead of law enforcement.”
He wanted to say he wasn't doing such a bang-up job of selling his new and improved self to his estranged wife, but he didn't want her to leave in a huff. Anyway, he probably wasn't as new and improved as he'd imagined. “Good for her,” he said instead. “Did you get a look at that door to the porch?”
“It's bolted.” She was quiet a moment before stretching her arms out in front of her. “Well, it's been a long day. I thought I might just take a nice warm bath and then turn in.”
“Sure. Go ahead.”
“I guess we're kind of doing twenty-four/seven while we're here,” she said a bit guiltily, “but jeez, we've got to sleep.”
“Don't worry about it. They've got at least two men in the trailer on every shift. They'll let us know if somebody shows up on one of the surveillance cameras.”
“Yeah. I guess so.” Her forehead crimped in a frown. “What about this threat, Bobby? All they told me in California was that a letter had come to the White House. How serious is this?”
He shrugged. “I don't know much more than you do, Ange. Apparently the letter was legit, but just between you and me, it sounds like Materro finally found a good way to suck up to Honcho,” he said, using the president's code name. Just about everybody in the agency was aware that, after being appointed director of the Secret Service six months ago, Henry Materro had yet to earn any kudos from the White House. “But that's just my opinion. And they're—”
“—not paying you for your opinions,” she finished with a little laugh.
“I guess I've said that before, huh?”
“Once or twice.” She stood up. “Well, see you.”
“See you.”
Angela didn't turn to leave immediately. Something hung in the air between them. A cool mist. A vibrating current. A push-pull magnetic force that said, Get up and kiss her, you fool, while at the same time it cautioned, You're a dead man if you do.
Take her, it said.
No. Let her come to you.
Bobby shifted his gaze to the western tree line, where the colors were beginning to fade. “Night, Ange.”
Call her back. The voice in his head was half Billy's, half his own. Jesus. Call her back.
And then what? Huh? What if he said everything and said it right, what if he opened his fucking veins, and she just turned and walked away again? What then?
It had taken Angela years to learn how to completely relax in a warm tub, to convince herself that the moment she tipped back her head and slid down until she was up to her chin in fragrant bubbles, the second she sighed and closed her eyes, somebody wouldn't pound on the door, wanting in.
She didn't truly relax this evening, either, half expecting an alarm to go off somewhere in the house. In all honesty, it surprised her a little that Bobby hadn't wandered into their room while she was in the tub, that he hadn't rapped softly on the door and made some sort of suggestive comment.
His failure to do that may have surprised her, but it certainly didn't disappoint her. She'd told him to back off, hadn't she? To lay off the sexual innuendoes and the meaningfully waggling eyebrows. She was glad he'd taken her warning seriously.
While she dragged her brush through her hair, she pondered the bodice of her navy silk gown, the one she'd just put on with all the modesty of a preteen behind a locked bathroom door. Right now she almost wished she were the pajama or sleep-shirt type, feeling resentful that she even had to be concerned with what she wore to bed. That was one of the lovely advantages of marriage. It never mattered what she wore because she never wore it long and always wound up sleeping comfortably and quite happily nude.
The hairbrush stalled in midair. Oh, God. Bobby didn't even own a pair of pajamas. He slept naked as a carved-chested, washboard-abbed, hard-legged jaybird. Her mouth went dry at the thought, and her face in the steamed mirror seemed to color considerably. It had been eleven months, two weeks, and four days since they'd made love. Since she had, anyway. God only knew about Bobby. Women had practically wept from coast to coast when he got married. They had no doubt formed a line at her husband's door five minutes after Angela slammed it on her way out.
But she had slammed it, and he hadn't done a thing to open it back up, not to her anyway, and she wasn't going to make love tonight or tomorrow night or any night they were here. Why in the name of God was she even thinking about it?
This was work. This was business. She was here to ensure that no harm came to the president's mother. It didn't matter that the threat might be bogus or insignificant, nor did it matter that her boss, Henry Materro, might have jumped the gun in an effort to ingratiate himself with the president. It was still her job.
She slapped the brush down onto the vanity, yanked up the neckline of her silk gown, and unlocked the door. Bobby was stretched out on the bed—fully clothed, thank God—his arms linked behind his head. The only light in the room came from the tiny television on the dresser.
He glanced at her briefly, not even a hint of salaciousness in his expression, then returned his gaze to the small screen. “We're locked down for the night. I'm really beat, Ange. Let's not hassle about the bed, okay?”
“Okay,” she said, reacting to his obvious weariness. Suddenly the prospect of actually lying down beside his long, solid body made her stomach quiver and her heart give an extra little tick. Those weren't good signs at all for someone determined to avoid conjugal bliss. “I'm not all that tired, actually. Plus, I've got a few calls to make. I'll just take my phone in the kitchen for a while.”
He stifled a yawn, his eyes still directed at the TV. “Sure. Don't worry about waking me up. You know it only takes me a second to get back to sleep.”
She knew. His years at West Point and in army intelligence all over the world had trained him to catch sleep where he could, as well as to wake and be up to speed more quickly than the average person could open his sleep-besotted eyes. There had been more than a few occasions during their marriage when he'd had to put a m
ug of hot coffee in her hand while she blinked and sputtered and groped for semiconsciousness.
Angela pulled her navy robe from a hanger in the closet. Then, cell phone in hand, she wandered into the kitchen. After pouring herself a glass of milk, she sat down at the table. It was her intention to call Rod, but she found herself punching in her parents’ number instead, knowing she'd regret it even as she placed the call.
“Callifano.” Her father's deep voice resonated across hundreds of miles. She could almost see him, his short-sleeved sport shirt smartly tucked in the waistband of a pair of perfectly pressed chinos, his dark eyes about to mist over just at the sound of her voice.
“Hi, Pop. It's Angela.”
“Baby!” His hand covered the mouthpiece, but not well enough to prevent her from hearing him call, “Rose! It's Angela. No. No. On the phone.”
It was impossible to call home and have less than a three-way conversation. Usually it was four- or five-way, depending on who was there. Her mother would be bustling toward the kitchen now from wherever she had been, clad in her soft-soled slippers and flowered, snap-down-the-front housecoat.
“How's my little G-man?” Pop asked, a smile evident in his voice as he waited for her habitual response, her playful correction.
“G-woman, Pop. I'm fine. How's your retirement going?”
Six months ago Sergeant Angelo Callifano had taken off his blue uniform, his badge, and his heavy utility belt for the last time. “He cried like a baby,” her mother had said, “but he'll be fine.”
“Your mother's running me ragged. This is harder than walking a beat. Wait a minute, honey.”
Angela heard the muffled sound of the receiver being wedged under his chin and the ensuing conversation with one of her nieces or nephews. “No, you can't wear your slicker and rain boots to bed. I don't know why. Because Mamo said so, and she's the boss.
”She wondered whose kids he was talking to. Probably Joey's. He and Beth only lived a block away. Ah, God. For a minute she was swamped by all her old hopes and dreams about the babies she and Bobby would have one day. Their children and grandchildren. How they'd grow old together. And Uncle Billy, too.
“Where are you, honey?” her father asked her, repositioning the phone. “Still in California?”
“I'm in Illinois at the moment, working protective detail with the president's mother.”
“Ah,” he said to her, and then called out, “She's in Illinois, Rose, watching out for Riordan's mother. What's her name? Crazy something? Daisy?”
“That's it,” Rose Callifano called from across the kitchen. “We saw her on Larry King a few years ago. You remember.”
“So.” He was back. “Is it good duty?”
“It's okay,” Angela replied, shaking her head at the perpetual circus on the other end of the line whenever she called home. Even though it made her crazy, a part of her just then longed to be surrounded by all that rambunctious, no-holds-barred affection.
“Good. Good.” Her father cleared his throat, a portent of what was coming. “So, how's Bobby?”
“He's fine.” He's the same. Granite in the shape of a man.
“Still in Washington?”
Ah, God. She never could lie to her pop. “Well, no. Actually, he's here in Illinois. With me.”
His big hand muffled the phone again. “Bobby's in Illinois, too, Rose. I dunno. She didn't say.” Then, to Angela, he said, “Hold on. Your mother wants to talk to you.”
No. No way. That would be comparable to being put in a small cinderblock sweat box with a klieg light shining in her eyes. Her mother would want to know how long they'd been back together, was Angela still on the pill, what did the Secret Service offer in the way of maternity leave, and was she taking her vitamins every day because those were so important. “I can't, Pop. I've got to get back on duty. I just called to say I love you. Give Mom a hug for me, okay? Bye.”
Angela broke the connection. They'd be staring at each other in their kitchen now, Rose and Angelo, both shaking their heads. Disappointed. Dismayed. Clutching at straws. “He's there with her,” her father would say. “That's a good sign,” her mother would reply. “Maybe, Rose. I dunno.”
It wasn't a good sign. It wasn't even her choice. It was an accident, dammit, and Angela felt like a victim. Suddenly Bobby was sleeping in her bed, not only against her wishes but against her better judgment. Taking up space like a big, hard rock. Like a meteor that had crash-landed in her life.
She dragged in a breath and punched in Rod's number now, wishing she had called him first. “Hi, it's me,” she said when his answering machine picked up. He never answered his phone and kept having to change his unlisted number, sometimes once a month, thanks to the crafty investigative work of a few of his die-hard female fans. It never failed to amaze Angela that, with his pick of a sizable portion of the female population, Rod Bishop had chosen her. Why? she continually wondered.
Of course, they had a lot in common. His father was a retired cop, just like hers, and he had a boatload of brothers and sisters, as well. Before he became the proverbial overnight success at the age of thirty-eight, he'd worked hard, supporting his acting ambitions with carpentry, truck driving, even a fair amount of ditch digging. If Angela had met him before she'd met Bobby, maybe…
“Hi, sweetheart.” Rod's warm baritone made her smile. “I'm going to put you on the speaker phone, if you don't mind. I'm trying to tie my bow tie and not having a lot of success. How's Illinois?”
“Oh, fine.” Her voice echoed as if she were calling from a cavern. Funny. That was how she felt. “You've got a party tonight, I guess.”
He sighed roughly. “I have to play nice for some studio executives and their wives.”
He always complained about the social demands of his business, but Angela was convinced he secretly loved the glitter and the designer clothes, the limos and caviar and champagne. She, on the other hand, detested all that and hardly made a secret of it.
Rod sighed once more. “If you see anything about this in the supermarket checkout line, please know, love, that it's not my idea to have Caitlin Corday draped on my arm all evening.”
Angela laughed. The busty little redhead had worked with Rod on his last picture. Apparently no one had ever told Caitlin that she didn't have to sleep her way to the top in business these days, because she certainly made a concerted effort to try. “I'll look forward to reading about it,” she said. “How's the tie coming along?”
“Almost there. How's the president's mother?”
“Safe and sound,” she said, hoping he wouldn't ask for any more details about her assignment.
But he did. “How's that Neanderthal you're still married to?”
Angela winced. She wished she'd never cried on Rod's all-too-willing shoulder. How Bobby was and how they were together was no one's business but their own. And nobody got to call him a Neanderthal but her!
“Everything's fine,” she said.
“Oh, before I forget, Angela, I've got some names and numbers of attorneys for you.”
“Attorneys?”
“Why wait until you get back here to get the ball rolling, love? Do you have a pen or pencil?”
Mrs. Riordan's blue binder, with a ballpoint pen clipped to its cover, was right by her elbow. She removed the pen and turned to a blank page in the back. “Okay. I'm ready,” she said.
“You don't sound very enthusiastic.”
She wasn't. Saying she was going to call a lawyer and actually writing down names and numbers were two entirely different things. “I'm just tired,” she lied.
Rod gave her three names. “That last guy is expensive, they tell me, but he gets the job done with the precision of a surgeon.”
Just what she needed, Angela thought, as she scribbled. Somebody with a scalpel to cut Bobby out of her heart.
“Well, the tie is tied, the cuffs are linked, and I have to run, sweetheart. Will you call me tomorrow? I leave for Mexico the day after that, and I probably won't be
easy to reach. I wish you'd fly back and come with me.”
“Have a good time,” Angela told him, a bit surprised that she actually meant it. She shouldn't want him to have a good time without her, should she?
“Not without you, love. Promise me you'll call tomorrow.”
“I'll call.”
“And call one of those lawyers,” Rod insisted.
“I will. I will.”
“Good.” He made a kissing sound. “Wish me luck with the studio crocodiles. Bye, sweetheart.”
“Bye.”
“Who was that?” Bobby said behind her.
She nearly jumped out of her skin. “I thought you were asleep.” Angela put down the phone as if it were scalding her hand, then closed Mrs. Riordan's notebook before Curious George got a look at the list of lawyers.
He sat, gave her cell phone a black look, and asked again, “Who was that?”
“I called Mom and Pop,” she said, feeling quite the model of truthfulness, and then a deceitful bitch when she saw Bobby's shoulders relax and the creases in his brow smooth out. He believed her. “They said to tell you hello,” she added.
“Just hello?” He lifted an eyebrow. “If I know Angelo, he said something more like ‘Tell that son of a bitch he better start treating you right or he'll be wearing my fist for a nose ring.’”
“He wouldn't say that.”
“Ha.”
“He doesn't blame you, Bobby. Both of them know I'm the one who walked out. If anything, they blame me.” She took a swig from her glass of milk, realizing that, for the forty-seventh time that day, she was discussing the subject she swore she wouldn't discuss. “I don't want to talk about this,” she said for the forty-eighth time.
Bobby leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms, shaking his head. “You really take the cake, Ange. Jesus.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means you ragged me for a year and a half about talking. Talking about Billy. About me. About us. Here I am”—he uncrossed his arms, gestured with his hands out, palm up—“here I am, ready to talk, just dying to spill my guts, and you don't want to hear word one.”