More Lipstick Chronicles

by Emily Carmichael

  “Except you’re finding out that you don’t have much time.”

  “Oh, I’m used to being busy.”

  “No, I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about you and Mitch. You can’t take your time about making a commitment. If he had stayed a senator’s aide, it wouldn’t be as much of a problem.”

  “Possibly. It’s also my age.”

  “Thirty-five?”

  “Thirty-seven.”

  “We like to keep our options open.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “But we can’t. Nobody can. Carole, you need to think about what you and Mitch want. Ultimately. Because time moves a lot faster than you think.”

  “It seems so unfair.”

  “It’s that way for all of us.”

  Carole looked thoughtfully at Pepper. Really looked at Pepper. Not in the way we glance at people at cocktail parties while we juggle a drink and hors d’oeuvres and notice the women’s dresses and think about our aching feet. She looked at Pepper, the same woman that ten million Americans invited into their homes at six-thirty Eastern Standard Time.

  “Pepper, you’ve lost some weight,” she said.

  “A little. But not enough to get me into a Brazilian bikini.”

  Pepper tugged at her dress to show off the soft folds of chiffon and satin. But her face didn’t have that glee Carole would feel at finding herself a few pounds lighter.

  “Pepper, are you okay?”

  A woman with a very tall, very stiff hairdo shrieked at Pepper’s shoulder and the two women hugged. Pepper introduced her co-chair for the event just as Mitch presented her with a glass of club soda with a dainty slice of lime.

  Whatever Pepper January had on her mind would have to be saved for another occasion. Carole made a mental note to call her the next day.

  Chapter 3

  Mitch was full of energy as they left the party.

  “I talked to the new interior secretary,” he said. “We’re setting up a meeting next week to talk about the wildfires.”

  “Where are there wildfires in December?”

  “There aren’t any right now. But we’ve got to start planning now.”

  Sam tipped his hat as they approached the curb. Since becoming a senator, Mitch never drove and his little sports car gathered dust in the alley garage behind his town house. A couple miles over the speed limit, a whiff of alcohol on his breath, a make-a-name-for-himself police officer—with that combination, Mitch could be the next poster boy for political bad behavior.

  “Todd went on home,” Sam said. “But he said to tell you that he’ll catch you after the Pentagon briefing. We gotta be on the road by six-thirty. Five-thirty if you’re going out to Miss Titus’s house.”

  Carole made a quick calculation.

  “Sam, I’ll drive him to the Pentagon tomorrow morning.”

  “You’d have to pick up Todd.”

  Carole muttered an unladylike oath.

  “Why don’t we stay at my place?” Mitch asked.

  “Because I’ve got a conference call with some European prospects tomorrow morning. They’re six hours ahead of us, Mitch. I need some sleep.”

  “Oh.”

  Said with all the enthusiasm and empathy of a man who thrived on less than four a night.

  “Why don’t I pick up my car at your house?” Carole asked.

  His jaw tensed. Carole resisted a smile. Men were so transparent, especially Mitch as he had not yet learned the distinctly Washington, utterly political talent of hiding feelings and pretending sentiment.

  “Sure. Sam, let’s get back to my house. Carole will drive herself home.”

  “I can follow Miss Titus’s car so she gets home safe.”

  “Please don’t,” Carole said. “Last time you did that, Mitch went with you to make sure you were kept company. I get home just fine on my own. I don’t need a parade.”

  Sam looked slightly wounded. Then he shrugged, opened the back passenger door for them and held out a uselessly solicitous hand to Carole as she slid into her seat.

  “You’re sure this is okay?” Mitch said, as Sam slid the car away from the curb.

  “Mitch, it would be nice if one of us had a little more flexibility about work. But it can’t be you—and it won’t be me.”

  “Mad at me?”

  “Not a bit,” she said, but there was a niggling feeling— not exactly anger—but you might call it resentment. But against whom she couldn’t have said.

  He leaned back in the plush leather seat and pulled her to him. She loved this driving in the mellow hours, the rhythmic pulse of the streetlights as they passed each corner, the feel of his strong chest against her cheek. She closed her eyes. He talked about coordination of firefighting efforts, FEMA and ATF and the National Parks and half a dozen other names and initials that she had never heard of. He wanted so much to help the people in his state that he sometimes forgot he was in Washington, and because he was so passionate, he was able to make the car feel like a pup tent in the middle of a pine forest. The air so crisp and cool. The crunch of pine needles beneath a crepe-soled boot. The owl’s insistent questions. All of that replaced the sirens and the horns honking and the swipe of tires on day-old puddles.

  When she woke up, he had stopped talking. They were parked in front of his house. Sam had left for his garden apartment tucked away out back behind the yard.

  “Can’t believe I’m such a scintillating speaker.”

  Carole stretched and groaned deep in the back of her throat.

  “Sorry.”

  “Not a problem. Are you okay to drive?”

  “Absolutely. Just give me a diet Coke for the road.”

  She followed him into the kitchen and he handed her a can. Mitch didn’t drink the stuff, but all kinds of things had been showing up in the refrigerator and medicine cabinet since he had met Carole. She drank a long, satisfyingly bubbly gulp.

  Mitch leaned across the island counter and gave her a lingering kiss.

  “Sure you don’t want to stay?”

  “Europeans are the next big market.”

  He walked her out to her car. When she drove away, she looked in the rearview mirror. He stood on the curb watching her until she turned the corner.

  The drive was longer than she remembered, even though traffic was light. If nothing else, having a man in her life was causing a lot of late nights. She pulled into the single-car garage of her quaint little Alexandria cottage just after one o’clock. Whiskers snarled his displeasure with her night out by refusing to come when she laid out a can of tuna.

  Her mailbox had two days’ worth of bills and catalogues and solicitation letters from worthy (and not-so-worthy) charities. She put all of the bills on the dining room table with the others from the week. Most of the solicitation letters she put in the recycling bin without even opening. She lingered over the catalogues. Before Mitch had vacuumed every available free minute out of her day, she had sometimes enjoyed reading catalogues and putting Post-it notes on items she would seldom get around to buying.

  Tiffany’s and Nieman’s were fun for fantasy. Pottery Barn and Restoration Hardware had stuff that was interesting but which she could just as easily pick up at a Saturday morning estate sale. Williams-Sonoma she used to plan out dinner parties that she never quite brought to fruition.

  She made herself a cup of hot chocolate, changed into her chenille bathrobe, told Whiskers again how sorry she was about her neglect and plunked down in the comfy chair-and-a-half in the living room with a half a dozen catalogues under her arm.

  When she awoke with a start some time later, she was surprised to see it was 3:30 A.M.—so much for getting some quality sleep for her conference call. She was also surprised to see a Hanna Andersson catalogue open on her lap, with three or four pages of sweet little baby outfits dog-eared. Now who was I thinking about when I marked those pages? Carole wondered, as she dragged herself upstairs to bed. My nieces are in grade school, for heaven’s sake.

  The next m
orning’s meeting at Allheart.com was opened with Carole’s announcement that the Europeans seemed somewhat interested in advertising on the Allheart page.

  “They’re a small upscale cosmetics firm, mostly selling in England and the Northern Continent,” Carole explained. “But if they advertise on our page, we not only get the revenue but we increase our visibility.”

  “We need to explore every new market,” Elyssa said. “Sounds great. And you talked to them this morning?”

  “I got up at six, because they wanted our call to coincide with a meeting of their marketing execs.”

  “Great work,” Elyssa said. “I was getting a little worried yesterday.”

  Dana stopped doodling in her idea notebook. Robyn and Alix were all ears. Carole had only to glance at each woman to know that the Private Bank fiasco was Topic One yesterday afternoon.

  “I’m going to be more careful in the future,” she said carefully. “It was never something I anticipated.”

  “Honey, I told you before it’s okay.”

  “It won’t happen again.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re breaking up!” Robyn cried.

  “No, not at all. I’m just saying I’m going to investigate our potential clients before we get to the table.”

  “Phew. Because it is so cool actually knowing somebody who’s going out with somebody who’s in People magazine. It makes me a sort of celebrity by association. If you get married to him, I’ll be really happy. Except for the fact that he’s such a dreamboat you’ll be getting hate mail from fifteen-year-old girls who were hoping he’d wait for them to grow up.”

  “We’re not getting married.” Carole answered more emphatically than she meant to.

  “Hey, don’t,” Alix warned. “Some other woman might come up and snatch him out from under you.”

  “Well, thank you, Miss Sunshine. Look, I’ve got plenty of time to think about going down that road again. Or at least, I feel like I do. I’m sure I look and feel much younger than my mother did at this age. And she was always flying to Switzerland to get Gerovital treatments.”

  “Gerovital?” Alix asked.

  “It’s not available in this country,” Elyssa pointed out. “It’s a lamb placenta treatment.”

  “Gross.”

  “They inject it in your butt every day for a week,” Carole added. “Then you come back to the clinic every three months and . . .”

  “Enough!” Alix cried.

  “Point is, I don’t feel my age. I hate my age.”

  “Why are we suddenly talking about age as a problem?” Robyn asked. “This is new territory.”

  “For you, maybe. But I’ve been thinking about it more and more. Because in a few years I have to have a kid or put it aside forever. I’m not going to be one of those women in their fifties and sixties doing fertility treatments.”

  “Didn’t I just hear you say you weren’t getting married? Is this all biological clock ticktock talk?” Robyn threw up her hands in exasperation.

  “It’s just that time has a funny way of moving along faster than we expect,” Alix said. “And no time is the right time for love. If it was as convenient as it was in high school, we’d all go steady for a month. And then pick out another flavor.”

  “Would you guys stop talking so fast?” Dana exclaimed. “You’re creating a whole line of cards just with this conversation and I can’t keep up. We can call them Timecards. Get it? Timecards.”

  “You and your inspirations.” Alix sighed and then added, “But yes, Robyn, you’re right. Carole is making a point about women facing biological choices on a different timetable from men.”

  “I think Mitch is facing his own clock—he’s thinking he needs to prove himself in a . . .”

  Elyssa sighed.

  “Could we maybe, just maybe, have a little business discussion thrown in here? Enough to give me justification for paying for the Krispy Kremes and the Starbucks pushpot?”

  As conversation turned to the relative merits of some new hires, Carole’s thoughts drifted back to the summer, when she had first met Mitch. She had been cautious, of course, because the memory of her painful separation from Hal was still fresh. Hal had been a musician, with emotional flaws sized to fit his enormous talent. Womanizing, drugs, drinking and all-around immaturity. Not the best qualities in a husband, but Carole hung in there for thirteen years. Because she loved him—or at least had loved him. Because her vows meant something. And because she had said ’til death do us part. It wasn’t over until she realized that she was killing herself with anxiety and preventing Hal from hitting the rock bottom that might make him turn his life around. When he checked out after eight days of a thirty-day rehab program and landed on their marital bed with the groupie who had driven him home, Carole said finito—giving him his walking papers and virtually every dollar they had accumulated.

  After the divorce, she dated. And had a series of forget-table one-night stands that left her drained. Then she entered her weird celibacy phase. Any man who wanted to be part of her life had to understand he came third—behind work at Allheart and the refurbishing of her refuge in Alexandria.

  Since most men come complete with an outsized ego, she had never had to compromise.

  Mitch was different, and not because he was accommodating. He wasn’t, particularly. He was tough, he was a workaholic, he was proud of his accomplishments—but not so much that he needed to brag or boast. He had crashed her solitary party. And the trip to his home state of Colorado had been key. They had both thought it would be a little romp, concluding with a leisurely rafting expedition. Instead, the boat lost its moorings, her cell phone ended up in the drink, she got a painful ankle sprain—and Mitch had proven himself her hero when he managed to get them both to safety.

  But that was the same weekend Mitch was offered the Senate seat when Senator Snyder’s wife was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. There was no cure, no care except to provide comfort and minimize pain. And Snyder wanted every minute with his wife. A public servant in the real sense, he couldn’t resign unless he left his seat in the hands of someone he trusted—the governor and he chose Mitch.

  Mitch had been sworn in less than a week after their Colorado trip. They had not had a weekend away together in the four months since he had become the youngest working senator, since he had been crowned “the last gentleman of the Congress.” Trips together? Carole didn’t think the overnight trip to New York in September to attend an important senator’s funeral counted. After all, there was a huge contingent of senators and their spouses staying at the same hotel—and while Todd was put up at his parents’ apartment four blocks away, he played barnacle every waking minute.

  “Carole, wake up! Yoo-hoo!”

  Carole startled.

  “What? You were talking about personnel.”

  “No, I wasn’t,” Elyssa said. “I was asking about upcoming trips. Do you have a trip scheduled that we should know about?”

  “A trip? Lemme think . . .”

  A little later in the afternoon, Mitch asked the same thing.

  “A trip? Where?”

  “I was thinking Quebec City.”

  “Okay.” A cautious okay.

  “It’s a foreign country, which means you won’t be recognized. Or, at least, you won’t be bothered. And it’s close—we can be there in three hours. Europe is a good ten or twelve hours.”

  “But why not go back to my ranch?”

  “Your parents.”

  “Oh, yeah, right.”

  Saying parents were the problem with visiting the Colorado Evans ranch was shorthand for the general atmosphere—a weekend “alone” would turn into a family reunion.

  “And Mitch, we need some time together.”

  “You’re right about that.”

  “Can’t you ditch Todd for a weekend?”

  “It would be my pleasure. Could you hold on a minute? Todd, I’m scheduling a trip to Duluth,” and then when Carole cried out, “Duluth!,” he added, “Shhh. Ho
ney. Todd, could you get us tickets? Say, Friday afternoon. I’d need you to advance there a few hours before me.”

  Carole heard Todd’s voice in the background.

  “What have we got going in Duluth?”

  “Constituent outreach.”

  “Duluth is in Minnesota.”

  “I know. I’ll give you all the details later. It’s a need-to-know thing. Now clear out of my office and get those tickets. Put it all on my personal account—not the office budget.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Carole giggled.

  “Are you really going to send him to Duluth?”

  “I could be cruel and send him to International Falls.”

  “Well, I plan to have you in a hotel room all to myself. There will be no meetings with any Canadians of any kind, unless you count room service.”

  She hung up the phone feeling quite pleased with herself.

  Friday afternoon, she found herself in the international terminal of Ronald Reagan National airport on the phone with Mabel.

  “I could transfer you to Todd, but oddly enough, he’s on his way to Duluth,” she said. “You wouldn’t happen to know why he has to . . .”

  “Mabel, I don’t need Todd. I need Mitch.”

  “He got called to the White House. Haven’t you been paying attention?”

  “To what?”

  “The Middle East. There’s been new violence on the West Bank and . . .”

  “There’s always violence in the Middle East!” Carole shouted. The middle-aged suit sitting next to her stared. “Sorry. Mabel, our plane boards in fifteen minutes. Is Mitch on his way?”

  “Can you hold for just a minute?” A click.

  Carole picked up her black nylon weekender and headed for the Air Canada gate. Just before she got to the security check, Mabel popped back on the line.

  “Miz Titus?”

  “Mabel, it’s Carole.”

  “Miz Titus, the senator is being briefed on the situation in the Middle East. When you get called to the White House, you go.”