Each Precious Hour

by Gayle Wilson

  Robin’s gaze came back to Carlton, who worked for one of the cable news networks. She shrugged her shoulders, covered by a navy wool coat and Black Watch plaid scarf to which a scattering of snowflakes clung. “Guess we can’t please everyone, Ted.”

  She paused, allowing her eyes to focus briefly on the End of the World contingent, who were, as usual, decked out in biblical-era costumes, including sandals. Their bluing toes weren’t visible in the darkness, but Robin could certainly imagine them, given the icy slush that covered the streets and sidewalks and her own feet, chilled despite her lined boots.

  “And even if we could,” she continued, her eyes coming back to the reporters, “we wouldn’t want to. Considering,” she added, softly enough that the word couldn’t carry to any of the throng protesting the senator’s upcoming address.

  Robin smiled at them after she said it. The resulting laughter eased the tension that was always in the air whenever the recently revealed incident in Vietnam was brought up. That unease was something Robin was learning to deal with, but she, along with the rest of the political world, had been shocked when, only two days ago, McCord had finally confessed to what had taken place on that disastrous mission.

  As a young first lieutenant, McCord had shot the commanding officer of his A-team because the man had gone insane. On a mission behind enemy lines, he had begun giving orders that made no sense, orders that cost the lives of his men and accomplished nothing. Just as the captain was about to kill one of his own soldiers for questioning his orders, McCord had shot him.

  Robin had come to terms with what her uncle had done. In the context of what had been happening, she thought it had been the right thing to do. The honorable thing. And she had recognized it was up to her to help guide the media—and through them the voters—into the same understanding and acceptance she had found. Tonight was, of course, one more opportunity to do that. An opportunity she welcomed.

  “Any other questions?” she asked, her eyes circling the crowd of reporters she was beginning to know almost as well as she knew the members of the senator’s as yet very small staff.

  “When does the man himself arrive?” someone asked.

  “Senator McCord will be here a few days after Christmas.”

  “Is he in Texas now?”

  “He’s spending the holidays at the Altamira with his family,” Robin confirmed, thinking, despite her intentions not to, about the familiar festivities at McCord’s huge ranch. “Wish we were,” she said, looking up at the increasing snowfall.

  They laughed again, but realizing that it wouldn’t do to offend New Yorkers, who truly love their city, Robin said, “Except then we’d miss everything that makes this city a special place to be during the holidays. I’m really very glad to be back in New York, if only for a few days.”

  “Then it’s on to Iowa and New Hampshire?” someone prompted, naming the first of the presidential primaries.

  “Maybe we’ll be lucky and get some sunshine,” Robin said.

  A rather oblique answer, she supposed. Whitt had given her permission to suggest McCord’s candidacy was going to happen, despite the hoopla that had surrounded the senator’s confession about those events in Vietnam. There wasn’t much point in trying to hype the New Year’s Eve speech, Whitt had said, without hinting to the press that despite what had just come out, it was still going to be what it had originally been slated as. The official start of James Marshall McCord’s run to the White House.

  “And now if you’ll excuse me, ladies and gentlemen,” Robin said, “I have a nice, warm room inside. At least I sure hope I do,” she added ruefully.

  There was another smattering of laughter from the reporters. Rooms were impossible to get now in any of the Times Square hotels. They had been booked up for more than a year, with record crowds expected at this particular New Year’s Eve celebration. There was even a new Waterford crystal ball, ready to drop at midnight before the third millennium’s dawning.

  With his usual foresight, James McCord had reserved accommodations and even the ballroom at the top of this Manhattan hotel far in advance. While he had still been trying to decide whether or not to make his run. And while he had been working to get his daughter Levi’s blessing on his bid for president. If he succeeded, then all the arrangements would already be in place for the announcement he hoped to make on New Year’s Eve.

  “It’s great to be back,” Robin added in response to their laughter. “Thanks for the welcome.” She waved, an expansive Texas gesture rather than the British-royals-type wrist waggle.

  Turning, she headed toward the glass doors, which the doorman, who had been watching the impromptu press briefing, held open for her. The warmth and the lights of the lobby were welcome after the bitter cold, but by the time she had chatted with a couple of McCord well-wishers on her way to the registration desk, the heat was becoming a little oppressive.

  Maybe because she was still wearing her coat. Or maybe because it didn’t take much these days to upset her normally anything-but-delicate constitution. Now, however, too much heat or a whiff of cigarette smoke would make her queasy.

  She couldn’t legitimately call it morning sickness. Thank goodness that had passed. She wouldn’t have time to indulge in the crackers and the few extra minutes in bed that she had needed then. According to her schedule, she wouldn’t have time during the next week to think, much less to pamper herself. Of course, not having time to think was something devoutly to be wished for. Especially since she was back in New York.

  Where Jared was. And, she reminded herself resolutely, that was definitely one of the things she was not going to think about. At least not until—

  “Are you all right?”

  She glanced up to find Whitt Emory beside her. His homely, acne-scarred face reflected concern, as did his dark eyes, almost hidden behind thick, horn-rimmed glasses. She realized she had been standing in front of the desk, lost in thought, her fingers resting on the invisible bulge of her pregnancy.

  “I’m fine,” she said automatically. “It’s just a little warm in here. At least it feels warm after standing out on the street answering questions in a snowstorm.”

  “Hardly a snowstorm. Not by New York standards. Good job, by the way,” Whitt said, apparently ready to buy her explanation about the heat. Or more likely ready to get back to the subject nearest and dearest to his heart—James McCord’s campaign.

  And after all, Robin thought, why shouldn’t he believe her assurance that she was fine? She hadn’t told anyone about her pregnancy. She had hidden her occasional nausea as well as the fatigue that had made her days seem endless. Now, of course, they would be. Up until the election, at least.

  Whether she was going to be a part of the McCord campaign was one of the things she desperately needed to think about. And another one she had decided not to think about. At least not until the senator’s New Year’s Eve speech was over.

  “Thanks,” she said, still a little embarrassed about her more public role in McCord’s campaign.

  “They like you. That’s half the battle. The other half is your admiration for your uncle.”

  “He’s been like a father to me,” Robin said softly. After all these years, that should be easier to say, but somehow it always reminded her of her own father. And of his death.

  “Now you have an opportunity to pay him back.”

  Whitt’s belief in her ability to help her uncle was flattering, of course, but it also made everything that much harder. She owed Jim McCord a lot. More than she could ever repay. And no one knew that better than Robin.

  The thought that if she pulled out of the campaign she would be letting her uncle down had played no small role in her angst. None of the decisions facing her were the easy kind, and the time frame in which she had to make them all was narrowing.

  Instead of verbally responding to Emory’s comment, she nodded and reached for the envelope the clerk put down on the desk in front of her. Inside was the key to her room and a couple of
messages. Despite the fact that she knew Whitt wasn’t through, she couldn’t stop herself from taking them out of the envelope and glancing at them. When she had, she took a deep breath and realized that her fingers were trembling.

  Neither of the messages was from Jared. She shouldn’t have expected them to be. She couldn’t even be sure he knew she was in town. They hadn’t been in touch since the last time she’d come through New York. She had called him then, and it had been a mistake. A mistake in too many ways to count, but still...

  “Anything important?” Whitt asked, his eyes on the messages.

  “Just the usual. A request for an interview with the senator and an invitation for him to speak to the Sons of Samson. Whatever they are,” she said, almost under her breath.

  “Do a little research,” Whitt suggested. “See how many votes they represent and where those votes are.”

  She nodded again, tiredly this time. Long day. Long ride from the airport to the hotel. Long time no see.

  She didn’t understand how that last one had sneaked into her thinking, but she knew to whom it had reference, of course. Long time no see. Three months, three weeks, and four days to be exact. But who was counting?

  “I’ll call you in the morning,” Whitt said. “We can have breakfast and do some planning.”

  “Sounds good,” Robin agreed.

  She shifted the strap of her heavy purse cum briefcase to her other shoulder, feeling her fatigue in the tightness of the muscles of her lower back and in the burn of her eyes. She had read most of Whitt’s copious strategy notes on the plane, and she knew those were what he’d want to discuss in the morning. Of course, that was exactly what she was here for. To help him see that this kickoff speech went without a hitch.

  She had volunteered for the assignment because somehow she just couldn’t spend Christmas in Texas with the family. The temptation to confide in someone would have been overwhelming. To her cousin Levi. Or to Uncle Jim. Just to pour it all out to someone who cared about her. Who would care how she was feeling.

  “Seven,” Whitt said. “And get some sleep. You look beat.”

  “Long day,” she offered, echoing her previous thought.

  “From now on, they’re all going to be long,” Emory warned.

  He sounded as if he were looking forward to it. Maybe he was. He had done this sort of stuff for a long time. Her uncle said they had been very lucky to attract Whitt Emory. He was an excellent fund-raiser and had been involved in politics, behind the scenes, of course, for a long time.

  “I know,” Robin said. “I’ll be better in the morning. I’ll be ready to go again,” she assured him.

  “I’m counting on you,” Whitt said.

  That, too, sounded more like a warning than a compliment, but maybe her negative response was simply the result of her tiredness and the slight queasiness. After all, it was what everyone always said to her. I’m counting on you.

  Robin was one of the dependable ones. The quiet ones who got things done. Her new, more public role in the campaign had taken the family by surprise, she knew, but Whitt was right in putting her out there. She believed in Jim McCord and in what he wanted to do for this country, so she welcomed the opportunity to make others believe in him as well. It seemed the least she could do after all he had done for her.

  “I won’t let you down,” she promised. Or Uncle Jim, she added mentally. Except to keep those promises...

  Not tonight, she told herself again. Just...not tonight. Whitt was right about that. What she needed now was a hot bath to soak out the chill and then as many hours of sleep as she could squeeze in between now and their meeting in the morning. Things would probably look a lot different then. A lot better.

  In the morning, she might be able to deal with the fact that she was in the same city with Jared Donovan. And to think of seeing him again without having her hands shake.

  JARED SHRUGGED out of his jacket after he’d turned up the heat in the apartment. He had been late getting home, and the rooms felt dank and cold and decidedly unwelcoming. Depressing as hell, actually, but then it didn’t take much these days to depress him, he acknowledged.

  He hung his jacket in the front hall closet and walked over to turn on the lamp by the sofa, automatically checking the message light on the answering machine as he did. A small, steady red eye glared banefully back at him. No messages. Which was the norm, of course, but tonight that unblinking light added to the downer he’d been riding the last couple of weeks.

  Since the incident at the federal building, he admitted. There was no sense dancing around it. Denial that you’d had the crap scared out of you would get you killed quicker than anything else in his profession.

  Face the fear and then put it behind you. He must have told himself that a million times since that day. Face the fear, and then forget it. Just like you learned to do with the adrenaline rush you always got no matter how many times you’d looked at a wad of C-4 wired and ready to blow. Face it and get over it.

  Only this time, he hadn’t seemed to be able to do that. At least he hadn’t been able to yet. He would, he told himself. He would because this was who he was. And this was what he did.

  He was good at it. He was good and he was careful and he had been very lucky. And in the course of being all three of those things, he had saved lives. Which was the real payoff.

  Hell, maybe it wasn’t even the federal building scare that was bothering him. Maybe it was the Christmas lights. The cheerful, bell-ringing Santas. The carols that were a constant backdrop for all the other noises in the crowded stores.

  He’d finally finished his shopping and mailed the packages last week to his family in Connecticut. He was cutting it a little closer than he usually did, but he hadn’t been able to face the buying expedition this year.

  If he didn’t send them something, however, at least for his nieces and nephews, he knew his mom would call. She worried enough about his job as it was. And she didn’t need the added aggravation of wondering about the cause of his deviation from the holiday norm.

  He picked up the remote control device lying beside the answering machine and turned around to click on the television, pressing the volume button as soon as the picture emerged. He needed its noise to fight the lonely silence of the apartment almost as much as he had needed the light and heat to chase away the cold darkness. There wouldn’t be anything on worth watching, he thought, laying the remote back on the table. There never was.

  He headed toward the kitchen, which was little more than a few feet of tile surrounded by some ancient appliances. He hadn’t been to the grocery store in a couple of weeks, but there should be a frozen something in the freezer.

  He removed a carton, paying more attention to the cooking directions than to its contents before he started tearing open the box. About midway through the process, his fingers hesitated. Jared’s head came up, slowly turning toward the sounds emanating from the television back in the living room.

  Without bothering to put the package on the counter, he retraced his path to the table beside the couch. With eyes focused intently on the TV screen, he fumbled one-handed for the remote. When he found it, he turned the volume up a little more, his gaze riveted on the pictures unfolding on the nightly news.

  He recognized the location, of course. Most New Yorkers would. Most of the country would. Half of the population had at one time or another watched that famous ball drop in Times Square. And this hotel, where the cameras had set up, was right in the heart of it.

  He eased down on the couch, the remote still in his right hand, and laid the partially unwrapped frozen dinner on the coffee table in front of him.

  “...to the latest polls, the public has accepted Senator McCord’s explanation. Not only accepted it, but embraced it. So we think it’s time to move on to other topics. And to issues of greater concern to the American people.”

  Time to move on... That phrase reverberated out of the rest of the campaign rhetoric. It was a refrain he’d been re
peating for almost a year now. Since Jeff had died. Since Robin had walked out on him. Time to move on... To admit it was over. To acknowledge that he needed to get on with the rest of his life, which wasn’t going to include Robin McCord.

  He drew a breath, deep and prolonged, sucking air into his lungs almost as if the atmosphere in the apartment had suddenly thinned and there was no longer enough oxygen. He felt like that. A little light-headed. Disoriented. Almost with a sense of déjà vu. Memories he didn’t want flooded into his brain.

  And into his body. His groin was suddenly so hard and tight he ached with the pressure. Or maybe that ache was something else. Longing. And a sense of loss.

  Robin’s mouth was moving again, but somehow he had lost the ability to comprehend whatever she was saying. He was watching her instead. Remembering how her lips had felt moving under his. Or trailing hotly over his chest and stomach. Or lower. Much more intimately examining his body.

  Her smile still had the power to stop his breath, he realized. Just as it had now. He forced himself to breathe again, but his eyes never left the screen, not until she deserted the microphones and moved through the glass doors of the hotel.

  Disappearing. Just as she had disappeared from his life, cutting the heart out of it. Out of him.

  And then she had just shown up here one night nearly four months ago. She had been gearing up for McCord’s campaign then, too. The senator had formed an exploratory committee to raise money and had been testing the presidential waters with the early straw polls. Robin had been acting as advance man for the campaign, very much behind the scenes.

  This public role he’d been watching tonight wasn’t something Robin had ever played before. But she had done it well, he thought, lips tilting a little in pride and admiration. Damn good job, sweetheart.