by Tami Hoag
“Let’s go put something on that scrape, then you can help Martha get the kitchen in order.”
“Maybe I don’t want to help Martha.”
“Tough spit. That’s your job.”
Erik sat on the front step of the house, staring glumly at the street. It was a warm, cloudy day. Down the block a group of little girls were playing a game that involved a lot of high-pitched squealing. Next door St. Stephen’s loomed like a small medieval castle cut from honey-colored limestone. On the sidewalk in front of the church an elderly woman made her way along with a walker. This was a quiet neighborhood. There seemed to be little traffic, pedestrian or otherwise. He looked across the street at the tree-shaded house that was Elliot Graham’s home and wondered if Graham had had Regan Mitchell specifically in mind when he’d said Erik should meet the girls of Horizon House before making a judgment.
She had certainly punched his button, Erik admitted with a rueful sigh. And his reaction to her had punched one of Lynn’s. He’d felt every defensive shield she had go up as she’d stood between him and Regan, and whatever ground he’d gained with her up to that second had been yanked right from under his feet.
The screen door swung open behind him and Lynn stepped out. He looked at her over his shoulder, noting the way she held her arms crossed tightly against herself and the way her lush, pretty mouth turned down at the corners, and his heart sank a little lower. The lady was steamed.
“I’ll try to keep Regan out of earshot when you’re doing your next little publicity appearance on behalf of our cause,” she said sardonically.
“I’m sorry I lost my temper,” Erik said, pushing himself to his feet and turning to face her. “I didn’t like the way she was talking to you.”
One winged black brow lifted in imperious question. “Really? And how did you think she would talk to me? She’s hurt and angry and bitter. Her parents have abandoned her, emotionally and physically. You’d probably love them. They’re very politically correct people. Their answer to every problem is to throw money at it.”
“Oh, give me a break,” Erik said irritably. He was angry with himself for losing his temper, but he was equally angry with Regan for provoking him and with Lynn for putting up with the girl’s attitude and foul mouth. “What am I supposed to say here? Poor little Regan, her rich parents don’t pay enough attention to her? That gives her the right to act any way she wants? I don’t think so. I had it a lot tougher than her when I was a kid and I didn’t go around mouthing off to adults and running around doing God knows what all night.”
“Well, good for you, Erik,” Lynn snapped. “That makes you better and bigger and stronger than the rest of us. You had a hard life and you came out shining like a champion. Maybe we should make you king of the world.”
He heaved a sigh and rubbed a hand across the stubble on his jaw. This was working out just swell. He needed a shower and a shave and a chance to regroup mentally. “Look, maybe I was out of line—”
“There’s no ‘maybe’ about it. My girls answer to me, Senator, not you. They don’t need you to hold up your high standards of conduct as something to measure themselves against, and they don’t need your disapproval.”
Erik held his hands up in surrender. “I said I was sorry. I just have a little problem sympathizing with kids who have advantages and still turn out like Regan. Let’s not get into a big fight about it.”
Lynn clamped her mouth into a tight line and glared at him. He stepped up onto the porch, taking away her height advantage. Hoping to take the edge off her defensiveness as well, he settled his big hands on her shoulders.
“We’re on the same side, remember?” he said softly, giving her his most apologetic smile as he shuffled a little closer. “Partners. Friends.” He lowered his head, meaning to give her a little kiss, but she shrugged off his touch and stepped back.
“My father was a professor at Notre Dame,” she said, her voice tight and husky with some emotion she wouldn’t let show. “I made Regan look like an honor student. Advantages aren’t everything.”
Hands on his hips, Erik hung his head and gave another long, defeated sigh. “I really stuck my foot in it, didn’t I?”
“Right up to your ankle.”
“You know, I wasn’t very good at being a teenager,” he said candidly. “I think I have a few things to learn. Maybe you could teach me?”
It was more a ploy to spend time with her than a plea for help. Erik’s conscience nipped him, but for once he ignored it. He wanted to know more about Lynn Shaw. If he had to take a crash course in juvenile delinquents to get what he wanted, then so be it.
Lynn’s eyes narrowed as she took another step back from him. She tightened her arms against her chest and shook her head. She’d made the mistake of letting him get too close too many times already. Getting involved with him would be an absolute disaster. She wouldn’t change his mind about girls like Regan—girls like she had been. He was too firmly indoctrinated in midwestern moral righteousness, the Scandinavian-Lutheran ethics of proper behavior. He probably had more in common with Elliot Graham than he did with her. He had it in his head now that he wanted her, but in the end he would disapprove of her the same way he disapproved of Regan, and she would end up standing alone with the pieces of another broken relationship crumbling in her hands.
“You came here to lend your support to our cause and to get your face in the paper, Senator,” she said quietly as she turned toward the door. “Let’s just leave it at that.”
“Congratulations, you’re page one in the Post Bulletin today. Page three in the Star Tribune and Pioneer Press.”
Erik wedged the receiver between his shoulder and ear, frowning as he tightened the knot in the dark green towel he’d hurriedly slung around his hips. His aide went on with all the enthusiasm of a hungry young political hound.
“They called this morning to confirm some facts about your voting record. Lori and I conducted a little impromptu poll afterward and the general feeling so far is that you’re a hero for saving women from being thrown into the street. There’s been some negative vibes about the delinquent girls, but I think we can downplay that angle and still get you good coverage. What do you think? Erik? Are you still there?”
Erik stood staring out his bedroom window at the lush green woods beyond his backyard. Rob William’s words had hit him like a hammer. This was exactly the call he would have expected from his right-hand man. This was the kind of strategy they discussed every day. He’d never given it a second thought. This was the way the game was played. His was a high-profile profession, a profession that hung on public support. Most days he took it in stride. Today his stride faltered as a vision of Lynn’s face loomed up in his mind’s eye, her expression cynical and accusatory.
“Erik?”
“Yeah, Rob, I’m here,” he mumbled. Phone dangling from the fingertips of his left hand, he slowly paced the length of his bed, his bare feet brushing silently across the thick beige carpet. He listened with one ear as his aide filled him in on Elliot Graham’s designs on a recently vacated city council seat, then went on to other matters of concern on the agenda.
“… and we could schedule a press conference if you want, but don’t forget you’ve got lunch with Gary Pressman from Minnesota Monthly and a golf date with the governor at three.”
“Cancel it.”
The voice on the other end of the line was stuck between a chuckle of disbelief and the silence of outright shock. “W-What?”
“You heard me,” Erik said decisively. “I can’t make it to the Cities today. If Pressman wants a story, he’ll have to come and get it. As for the governor, I think he’ll understand if you tell him I had more important things to do than commiserate with him about his slice.”
“But—but—”
“Thanks for the info on Graham. I’ll touch base later.”
They said their good-byes, Rob sounding less than sure about his boss’s sudden change of plans. Erik set the phone down on the oak st
and beside his bed and went into the bathroom to shave. He went about the task quietly, methodically, his actions automatic, his mind on Lynn.
“You’re a jerk,” he said to himself at last.
He stood before the sink, half his face lathered with shaving cream. His reflection stared back at him from the mirror, the white beard of foam making him look as if he was in disguise, but he couldn’t hide from the scrutiny of his own blue eyes. He’d done exactly what Lynn had accused him of from the first. He had gone to Horizon House concerned with only what was on the surface. They were having trouble with their housing. He would sweep in like the proverbial white knight, save them, and ride on, with the cheers of the grateful echoing behind him. But Horizon’s problems went deeper than housing.
He hadn’t given much thought to the residents of the house before he’d gone there. He had simply taken up the banner for right, the defense of the defenseless, carelessly believing that that was enough. And once he’d met the girls he’d reacted in a way that put him just a scant notch or two above Elliot Graham on the international scale of cretins. What a hypocrite. He’d fashioned himself as a champion of the oppressed and then looked down his nose at them just as everyone else did. Erik couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so ashamed of himself.
I made Regan look like an honor student. Lynn’s words rang in his ears and he leaned against the marble countertop and groaned at his own stupidity. By disapproving of Regan he had condemned Lynn as well. You don’t want to win me, Sir Erik. I’m no vestal virgin.
“Aw, Lynn,” he whispered, shaking his head. He’d hurt her. They hadn’t known each other a full day and already he’d hurt her. He gave his reflection a look of disgust. “Some white knight you are.”
The only thing he could do was start over, he thought as he brought his razor up and plied it carefully to the plane of his cheek. He would just have to go back to Horizon House and prove to himself and Lynn Shaw that he could care.
“I just love working with an audience,” Lynn said dryly as she hefted a box down from the stack in the back of the rented moving van. She handed it to Martha, who handed it to Tracy. The girl trudged off toward the house with a stormy look on her face, dodging the protestors who paraded up and down the sidewalk, signs bobbing.
Lynn watched them, taking a moment to get her breath in the stifling heat. A very organized bunch, these demonstrators. It seemed they had a schedule. This was the afternoon shift, comprised mostly of people Martha’s age, with a few young mothers thrown in for balance. They had come up with a chant, which droned on and on in a bland midwestern monotone: “Save our family neighborhood. Runaways go home. Save our family neighborhood. Runaways go home.”
Martha scowled at them. “I’ll bet they were a grubby bunch of peasants in a former life,” she said as Lynn handed down another box. “Probably the same horde from the Salem witch hunt.”
“Well, we’re safe for the moment,” Lynn said, her resentment evident in the sarcasm that crackled in her voice. She wiped the sweat from her forehead, brushing her damp bangs out of her eyes. “I’m sure there must be a city ordinance against burning infidels in public. That kind of thing is bad for the image of Camelot.”
“So are we,” Martha reminded her. She passed her box to Barbara, watching protectively as the girl ducked through the line of demonstrators and all but ran for the house. Shaking her head in disgust, Martha turned and rested her forearms on the bed of the truck. “Speaking of Camelot, I wonder what became of our knight?”
“Oh, I imagine he’s gone home to spiff himself up for his next photo opportunity.”
Martha absorbed the jibe, her gaze steady and speculative. Lynn could feel it on her, soaking up her expression, her manner, her tension. She turned away on the pretense of looking for a particular box in the jumbled mess in the moving van.
“You were a little hard on him this morning,” Martha commented. “Considering he’s our only real help so far.”
“Father Bartholomew is our only real help so far. All Erik Gunther has done is get himself in the news.”
“Oh, I don’t think that’s all he’s done.”
Lynn jerked around to glare at her friend, using anger and defensiveness as a shield to keep Martha from seeing whatever else might have been there. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t think you should condemn him for losing his temper with Regan,” Martha said, ignoring the question. “She would try the patience of the proverbial saint, you know. She had Lillian on the verge of a cerebral hemorrhage this morning. That girl has a positive genius for infuriating people.”
“It wasn’t just Regan,” Lynn charged, digging up every scrap of evidence she had against Erik Gunther to ward off the memory of his kisses. “He was showing his true colors. I told you he wasn’t interested in anything more than what this issue could do for his career, and he proved it. Men like Erik Gunther are all style and no substance.”
Martha rolled her eyes. “He sure looks substantial to me. The man is a hunk and a half.”
“Handsome is as handsome does,” Lynn said primly, reaching for another box.
“I’d say handsome did a pretty good job of ruffling your feathers.”
“He did not. This whole mess has done the ruffling.”
“Really?” Martha arched a brow as she accepted the box of books, then set it aside. “Well, while we’re spouting old maxims, maybe you should try this one on for size—‘To thine own self be true.’ ”
Lynn’s retort died on her lips as a motorcade rounded the corner onto their block. She straightened slowly, one hand pressing against the sore spot in her lower back. Erik Gunther’s burgundy Thunderbird led the parade, followed by two pickups loaded with people. They pulled over to the curb behind the moving van and the passengers climbed out, looking bright-eyed and ready for action. Dressed in jeans, shorts, and T-shirts, they didn’t bear any resemblance to a news crew or any other group that might trail around after a popular politician. A mixture of men and women of various ages, some came armed with cleaning paraphernalia. One man was carrying a cooler. Some of the women held casseroles and cake pans.
Erik himself had shed any semblance of his professional image. A pair of age-faded jeans clung to his lean hips and muscular thighs. The T-shirt he wore was a shade of blue that enhanced his tan and brought out the startling color of his eyes. Stretched across his chest in black ink was an outline of the Mayo Clinic and the line ROCHESTER, MINNESOTA: PREFERRED BY NINE OUT OF TEN SICK PEOPLE. Taking in the total picture, from his tousled blond hair to his sneakers, no one would have guessed he spent most of his life in committee meetings. He looked like a walking ad for healthy outdoor life and hard physical work.
His eyes locked on Lynn’s as he came toward the van. Lynn fought the urge to glance around in search of an escape route. She could handle Senator Gunther. Bad choice of words, she groaned inwardly as an image of the two of them entwined in a kiss floated up in her mind’s eye.
“I thought you ladies could probably use some help unloading,” he said. “So I went out and rounded some up. I called a couple of groups here in town and they were more than willing to send a few volunteers.”
In exchange for a favor or two, Lynn thought. Before this was over he would have half the special-interest groups in Rochester in his debt.
“Erik, you’re a godsend,” Martha declared, patting his arm as he took up a stance beside her at the back of the truck. “At my age I don’t even want to move my own body half the time, let along a truck-load of junk.”
“Why don’t you take a break?” he suggested. “Put your feet up, have some lemonade. Bill there has a coolerful.”
“Sounds like a plan to me.”
“Lynn, you can go, too, if you like.”
“Thanks for giving me your permission, Senator,” Lynn said sardonically. “But I’m fine right here.”
Martha snorted and headed toward the house, the stream of demonstrators parting for her like the Red Se
a. The cleaning crew and kitchen detail trailed after her. The rest of the volunteers hung back by Erik’s car, awaiting instructions.
“Suit yourself.” Erik shrugged, then hoisted himself into the back of the truck with her. She wasn’t going to make this easy for him, that much was clear. She regarded him with a look that bordered on hostility, reminding him of Regan and of Lynn’s admission of her own past.
The image of Lynn, young and bitter and defiant, slipped easily past the pompous attitude he’d shown her earlier and touched his heart in a very tender spot. There was a story to her past, a reason for the rebellious teenager she had been and the cynical adult she had grown into. He wanted to know that story. He wanted to understand. He wanted her to confide in him, wanted to hold her and soothe her as she told him about her troubled youth. But he was going to have to win the right to do that. He doubted she was even going to let him near enough to apologize right now.
She picked up a brown carton labeled LYNN’S OFFICE and thrust it at him. He handed it to one of the volunteers from the Women’s Shelter. They worked side by side for an hour without exchanging a word, the chanting of the protestors their only accompaniment. When the back of the truck was empty, Lynn hopped down and started for the cab.
“Is there more stuff at the old house?” Erik asked, falling into step beside her.
“No. This was the last of it. I have to return the truck.”
“I’ll ride along with you.”
Lynn lifted a brow as the Channel 10 news van turned onto the block. “And miss a golden opportunity to tell the public how you’ve always been deeply concerned about the problems of America’s youth?”
Erik bit his lip and pulled the door of the truck open. “I’ll even let you drive,” he offered, swallowing the retort that had sprung instantly to his tongue. He deserved the shot, he thought as he cast a slightly longing look at the news van. The politician in him would have liked the publicity, but if he wanted to win Lynn Shaw’s respect he would have to forgo the opportunity.