Forbidden Son

by Loretta C. Rogers

Honey Belle glanced out the window of the yellow cab. The view of the city did nothing to lift her spirits. The driver hit the brakes at a traffic light, lurching her forward.

  The traffic light turned green, and the cab moved again toward the Hart Senate Building. The cabbie maneuvered close to the curb, and she paid the fare. Midmorning heat was rising from the sidewalks in shimmering waves. Perspiration beading on her upper lip, she stood for a moment admiring the nine-story structure before pushing through the senate building’s glass doors and stepping into the atrium. There was no need to check the information board for Senator Hartwell’s office number. A simple phone call had given her that information. She stepped into the elevator and pushed the second floor button. There didn’t seem to be enough room in the elevator’s car to breathe. No matter what, she swore she wouldn’t give an inch. Not when it came to protecting her son.

  She second-guessed her decision to confront Tripp. There were two senators for each of the fifty states. With that many politicians and their staff, plus the house representatives, sixteen-year-old Jack Tripp Garrett would simply be another young page, and certainly not one significant enough to warrant the attention of a popular senator from South Carolina. If anyone questioned Jack’s middle name, it could be construed as a coincidence. After all, Tripp was a common name in the South, wasn’t it? Perhaps she should turn around, go back to the hotel, and stay there. She would wait for Jack’s nightly telephone call, tell him how much she loved him, to enjoy his summer in D.C., and that she was flying home on the next flight to Atlanta. Yes, that seemed like a good plan. No one would be the wiser about Jack’s parentage. She had always allowed her son to believe his father had died in the war, had brushed off details when he’d come home from school filled with questions as to why he didn’t have a daddy to play fly ball with him or to take him fishing and camping. She feared, if the truth came out that Jack was illegitimate, he would hate her. Hate her for not telling him who his father was. How could she tell him why she’d kept his birth a secret without condemning herself?

  Her pep talk had helped. She’d made her decision, until the elevator doors opened and the little voice in her head chided, “Coward…coward.” She’d heard it before, that hateful little reminder. “Okay, so I’m not the most courageous person in the world. Give me a break.”

  An impeccably dressed man holding a briefcase said, “I beg your pardon, miss?”

  She winced at the fact she’d spoken aloud. “Bad habit…” She gave an eloquent shrug. “Talking to myself.” She swallowed more emotions than she could explain.

  In a split second before the elevator doors closed, she called out, “Senator Hartwell’s office?”

  The man hurried his answer. “Down the hall. Last door on the left.”

  There was no time to thank him.

  She was more nervous than she’d thought she would be, and found herself mentally rehearsing exactly what she wanted to say. This sort of rote memorization had served her well during college and graduate school.

  She took a moment to stare down the long hall and felt as if she were walking to her doom. Tucking a wayward strand of hair behind her ear, she sucked in a steadying breath. What would she say to him after all these years? Hello, Senator Hartwell, remember me?

  No, that wouldn’t do. She tried again. Hi, Tripp, I was in town, and thought for old times’ sake—

  She quickly dismissed that one.

  The more she walked, the longer the hall seemed to be. She could hear her breath, felt the pressure of the carpet under her high heels, until she reached the last door on the left.

  She took a step toward the closed door, placed her hand on the doorknob, and hesitated. What if he didn’t remember her? What if he did remember her? Which was worse? Both, she decided.

  Outside the building the air had been stifling, but inside it was air conditioned, so why was she perspiring? She stood frozen in place.

  A man’s voice said, “Excuse me, miss, I have an appointment with the senator. Do you mind?”

  She hesitated for the barest second. “Oh, certainly, I was just going in.”

  She turned the knob and swung the door open, stepping inside ahead of the man. The office had an air of formality. Behind a dark cherrywood desk sat a woman in her mid-fifties. Honey Belle guessed she was Tripp’s secretary or—what did they call them these days? Ah, yes, administrative assistant. A further glance around the room showed a set of comfortable leather chairs against a wall. Black-and-white framed photographs of the Capitol building, Lincoln Memorial, and Presidents John F. Kennedy and Lyndon B. Johnson decorated the wall.

  The secretary looked up. Her glance seemed to bounce off Honey Belle as she acknowledged the gentleman, her voice pleasant, yet all business. “Good morning, Senator Clarksdale. He’s expecting you.”

  As the senator opened the door, Honey Belle craned her neck hoping to catch a glimpse of the man she longed to see, yet at the same time dreading the encounter.

  Before the door closed she heard Senator Clarksdale say, “We need to talk, Senator.”

  Honey Belle’s heart fluttered as she stepped forward. She couldn’t help but wonder about the woman’s expression toward her. Not friendly. Indifferent, Honey Belle decided.

  She felt a little unnerved as the woman seemed to scrutinize her. “If you are here to see the senator, he isn’t taking any appointments.”

  For a long moment, Honey Belle held the secretary’s gaze. The woman removed her glasses, plucked a tissue from a box on the corner of her desk and began wiping them.

  Honey Belle glanced at the gold nameplate on the desk. “Oh, I see, Mrs. Evans. Is he not taking appointments for today, only, or for the rest of the week?”

  The secretary put her glasses back on again, scowling softly. “The rest of the week. He’s quite busy.”

  “Five minutes is all I need. Just five minutes.”

  The woman harrumphed. “That’s what they all say.”

  Honey Belle searched her mind for a logical argument. Right now she felt taut and insecure. “I’m certain everyone also says their business with Senator Hartwell is important. The truth is my business with him is…urgent.”

  “Yes, of course, it is.” The secretary’s voice sounded droll. As if she’d heard that excuse a thousand times before.

  ****

  Meanwhile, in that very same office, Tripp stared at the other side of that same closed door, praying that someone would enter and save him from Senator Clarksdale’s tiresome laments about the way the Arms Committee was shaping up. The man was a proverbial worrywart.

  “Listen, Tripp, I don’t have the same clout as you carry. All I know is that if we don’t have all the i’s dotted and t’s crossed, the President will veto this bill and send it back to the House. We can’t risk even the smallest delay.”

  Tripp reached down to rub away the phantom pains he still felt in his missing limb. He stood stiffly and walked around the desk. Clapping Clarksdale on the shoulder, he reassured him. “You worry too much, Jim. Rest assured this bill will pass. The future of our service men and women and the future safety of our country depend on it.”

  When it came to protecting his country, he acted with utter assurance that his decisions would not be countermanded. He reached for the cane resting at the corner of his desk. His leg hurt like the dickens…no, not his leg…it wasn’t there anymore…the prosthesis.

  He gripped the brass knob and pulled the office door open. “Keep me abreast of any changes, Jim. We don’t have much time before we go into session.”

  The senator nodded. It wasn’t until Clarksdale stepped aside and moved toward the exit door that Honey Belle came into view. Squaring his shoulders and wincing at the pain where the artificial leg fitted above his knee, Tripp stared at the woman, her golden brow pinched with concern. Her face searched his as if looking for some kind of answer. He thought she looked tense and frightened.

  “Mrs. Evans, what time am I to meet with the new group of junior congression
al pages tomorrow?” He observed the younger woman’s heightened color at his words. Some inner reflex caused him to speak to her.

  “Excuse me. Have we met?”

  She spoke, a slight quake to her voice. “A very long time ago. I-I know how busy you are, Senator Hartwell, but it’s imperative I speak to you…in private.”

  The secretary stood as if Honey Belle had overstepped boundaries. “Senator, may I remind you that—”

  Tripp sent the woman a scowl as if reminding her that he was still capable of making decisions. He turned toward the opened door to his office. With a sweeping motion of his free hand he invited Honey Belle in. “I can spare a few minutes.”

  ****

  Honey Belle straightened. Her heart went out to him. She knew from past television reports and newspaper accounts of his heroic actions in Vietnam and how he’d lost his leg, and even after all these years she knew him well enough to see the pain he hid so well from others.

  Neither of them moved as they stared at each other. His muscles seemed frozen, and, for a second, she was certain he didn’t recognize her. Suddenly, she felt guilty showing up this way, without warning, unannounced. She had thought it would be easier, somehow. That she would know what to say. She didn’t. Everything she had in her head to say seemed inappropriate. Thoughts of the summer they had shared together in South Carolina came back to her, and, as she stared at him, she noticed how little he had changed since the last time she’d seen him.

  She tried not to be unsettled by this tall, powerful man. He towered over her, his stare drilling into her. His eyes seemed to capture her from hair to high-heeled shoes. Clearing her throat, she tried to appear businesslike.

  “Have I changed so much that you don’t recognize me, Tripp?” This wasn’t at all the way she had rehearsed the scene in her head. She didn’t blink an eye—afraid any reaction might betray her uncertainty.

  “Look, miss, I don’t have time for twenty questions. I meet a lot of people, if—”

  She wanted him to remember, to remember her, to remember—what? That seventeen years ago she had walked away from him? That she hadn’t had the courage to stand up to his father and fight for her position in the life of the man she loved. That for sixteen years she had raised the son he never knew existed. She should never have left Tripp. So much guilt, for so many mistakes. She had no one to blame but herself.

  She lifted her eyes to his. “Seventeen years ago, in Charleston, South Carolina, I asked you to take me for a ride in your shiny white BMW.”

  The silence of the office closed in around her. Every feminine instinct screamed a warning that he would deny knowing her.

  He shook his head as if flummoxed. “Honey Belle Garrett?”

  When his frowning gaze swept over her, she felt completely inadequate. Something she hadn’t felt for a long time. The force of his scowl was like a windstorm scorching her skin.

  “Why are you here?”

  She wanted to reach out to him. To touch him. Instead, she kept her hands clenched around the handle of the briefcase that held the condemning evidence Judge Hartwell had threatened to use against her. “There’s an important reason for leaving my home in Georgia and coming to D.C., Tripp. Believe me I would rather have stayed in Valdosta and completely out of your life, forever.”

  She watched the muscle in his jaw work as he motioned toward a chair. “Please, sit.”

  Glancing around the space, her laughter was more of a nervous twitter. “Maybe I’ve watched too many spy movies, but is it possible your office is…bugged?”

  Her question seemed to shock him out of his surprised stupor. Hooking the cane on the corner of the desk, he lowered himself to the plush black office chair, the steel in his voice evident. “Anything is possible, Miss Garrett. Obviously you aren’t here for old times’ sake. I’ll ask again, what is the purpose of your visit?”

  She drew in a deep breath, the tension leaving her. He was going to hate her guts. Here wasn’t the place to reveal her secret.

  “I have something of extreme importance to tell you. Because of who you are and your political position, your office may not be private enough.”

  Tripp leaned forward, and the chair squeaked loudly. “All right, out of curiosity, I’ll play your little game. Meet me at the Lincoln Memorial in an hour.”

  “There are a lot of steps. How will I find you?”

  His voice was laced with condemnation. “One hour.”

  When he looked down at the papers on his desk, Honey Belle knew she had been dismissed.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The image of Honey Belle’s ethereal beauty rose up in Tripp’s mind like a specter to haunt him. He stared at the closed door long after she had left his office, then leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. Oh, how he had loved her, from the first moment she had slapped his face when he’d suggested he drive her to the beach to watch the submarine races.

  He had fully intended to take advantage of the young woman who had bared the fullness of her breast as she had leaned out the Burger Bin’s drive-through window to hand him his order of fries and a hamburger with double pickles, hold the onions.

  A rich college kid used to getting his way, the slap and her refusal to accept his apology had won his heart.

  Now a familiar grief constricted in his chest like a vise. It had been seventeen years since he had stood on the steps of the house located on Barrington Street only to find out that Honey Belle and her parents had never lived in the antebellum home with the wide wraparound veranda. She had stolen his heart, she had lied to him, and then like a wisp of wind she had disappeared.

  To his utter amazement, her features had grown more beautiful than he remembered. Sighing, he welcomed the anger, the feeling of betrayal that twisted hot in his gut.

  The intercom’s buzz caused him to jump. Pressing the answer button, he ground out his response more forcefully than he intended. “What is it?”

  “Shall I order in lunch for you, Senator?”

  “Not today, Mrs. Evans. I’m going out.”

  “But Senator, you haven’t fully dictated the changes in the documents for the Arms Committee.”

  He wanted to say, Screw the schedule. He didn’t. “Notify the answering service, Mrs. Evans, that we’re closing the office—” he glanced at his watch— “until two o’clock. We all deserve a break once in awhile, including you.”

  After a long moment, he removed his jacket, draped it over the back of his chair, loosened the knot on his black tie, and grabbed his cane.

  Outside, he walked down the sidewalk, the soles of his shoes cushioned his steps. It felt good to be out, to feel the heat against his back. He rolled the sleeves of his white shirt up to his elbows.

  He had always paid attention to details. Especially when he’d begun his law practice, and even more so while stationed in Vietnam, and now as a United States senator. Little things, obscure things, and it had become a habit.

  And now a little detail bothered him. Honey Belle’s out-of-the-blue visit.

  Detail.

  Something significant. Something important.

  But what was it?

  He stopped at Roscoe’s Dog and Suds stand and ordered two hot dogs, extra relish, hold the onions.

  “That be all for you today, Senator?”

  “Two waters. Extra ice.”

  “You got it. Man, it’s hot enough to melt Antarctica.”

  Tripp chuckled as he accepted the sack and paid the vendor. “Let’s hope not, Bernie.” There was a joke. Bernie Lebowitz had bought the hot dog stand ten years ago and had never changed the name.

  Moments later, with the aid of the cane, he limped up the steps to the top of the Lincoln Memorial. Early, he stationed himself in the shade next to the massive statue, where he could see the comings and goings down below.

  Removing a hot dog from the sack and savoring a man-sized bite, he realized he’d forgotten how good simple food tasted.

  ****

  Honey Bell
e felt the heat on her face as she looked up. Squinting through her sunglasses, she scanned the steps. Her heart dropped. Tripp was nowhere in sight.

  She glanced at her watch. On time, she’d wait a half hour. If he didn’t show, she’d leave and never look back.

  And then she spotted him, standing far enough out of the shadows to be seen. She wondered how long he’d been there watching her. The thought sent a shiver down her spine—one she quickly rejected.

  By the time she reached the top of the steps, she was glad she walked every day. She had to admit climbing steps in high heels wasn’t as easy as walking two miles wearing sneakers. She drew a long, lung-refreshing breath and blew it out.

  Tripp was clearly upset. She could tell by the scowl on his face. She opened her mouth, but before she could greet him he blurted out, “I took the liberty of bringing lunch. I hope you like hot dogs.”

  Surprised, she didn’t know how to respond. In truth, she was certain the butterflies in her stomach would refuse anything she put in it. “Thank you. I had a large breakfast.” She wiped a hand across her brow. “Do you have anything cold to drink in that bag?”

  They were both stalling for time, and she knew it. She accepted the Styrofoam cup, removed the lid. The water cooled her parched throat.

  She worried her bottom lip, wishing he wasn’t so damned handsome. “Do you mind if we sit?”

  Without waiting for his answer, she sat on the top step relishing the coolness of the shade. She balanced the briefcase on her knees.

  She looked up at Tripp, who was still standing. His eyes seemed involved in some sort of inner search for understanding as to why she was here. She patted the place next to her. “I promise not to bite.”

  He snapped his head around as he joined her. His face softened as soon as his eyes met hers. She wanted to hold on to that gaze. She clicked the clasps on the briefcase and opened it. She spoke no words as she handed Tripp a photograph.

  She wondered what he was thinking as he studied the image. He frowned. “A picture of me in my senior year of high school. I don’t remember giving you this. How did you get it?”