True Colors

by Yolanda Wallace

  “Whew.” Portia heaved an exaggerated sigh as she joined Taylor in front of the mirror. “Your mother reminds me of a gunnery sergeant I once had.”

  “That sounds about right.” Taylor laughed despite herself. “Most people think my father was the disciplinarian when my brother and I were growing up, but my mother was the one who really laid down the law. Not much has changed.”

  “Hey.” Portia’s voice was as gentle as her touch as she took Taylor by the shoulders and turned her to face her. “I’m here, Tay. Tell me what you need.”

  Taylor felt the tension in her neck, shoulders, and back relax just the slightest bit. “Do you still have my six?” she asked, covering Portia’s hands with hers.

  During their first date—their only date, really—Portia hadn’t said good-bye at the end of the night. Instead, she had used the military term meaning she had Taylor’s back.

  “Of course I do.”

  Taylor pointed to her empty beer bottle. “Then find me another one of those ASAP. And keep them coming. I have a feeling this is going to be a very long night.”

  * * *

  The historic National Building Museum, which had hosted inaugural balls since 1885, served as the site of one of the evening’s two official state functions. The other, the vice president’s ball, was located a few miles away. At least six other balls were also planned for the night, along with countless other parties.

  Robby looked around the ornate ballroom. There were potential stories everywhere. She didn’t know which one to pursue first. The strait-laced congressman who had his hand so far up his date’s dress his entire right arm had disappeared, the scandal plagued senator who was drowning his sorrows in multiple bottles of champagne, or the snubbed wannabe cabinet appointee who continued to publicly campaign for a position that had already been awarded to someone else?

  She hoped Arnold Dunphy would make an appearance, even though he had vowed he wouldn’t. Although he had donated hundreds of thousands of dollars to Democratic candidates over the years, he had switched his allegiance to the Republican Party when he decided to run for president. His brash antics hadn’t endeared him to the Republican establishment, and he claimed they threw him under the bus after his campaign rally in Minnesota had devolved into an ugly nationally televised brawl that resulted in multiple arrests. Now he was making noise about becoming an independent so he could mount a challenge when Terry Crenshaw came up for reelection in four years. If he showed up tonight, there were bound to be fireworks. And she had a ringside seat.

  “Try not to drool on the tablecloth,” Miles said. “I doubt you could afford the cleaning bill.”

  Robby elbowed him in the ribs. “Shut up before I tell your sexy side of beef you have a crush on him.”

  “Is that a threat or a promise?”

  “Take it however you like.”

  “I often do.”

  “TMI, Miles. TMI.”

  An usher showed them to their table. Miles pulled out Robby’s chair for her prior to claiming his own seat. Before Robby could introduce herself to her well-heeled dinner companions, who were currently staring at her as if she had something hanging out of her nose, the overhead lights dimmed, and a spotlight shined on the double doors on the far side of the cavernous room. An excited buzz began as guests turned to watch the arrival of the First Family.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” a deep voice said over the public address system, “please welcome the President and First Lady of the United States.”

  As “Hail to the Chief” played, Terry and Tina Crenshaw swept into the room. Both beamed as they made their way past a string of well-wishers and strode toward the main table.

  Politics be damned, Robby had to admit they made a striking couple. Terry, with his shock of silver hair, had a profile as distinguished as the ones on Mount Rushmore. Too bad his ultraconservative political views would probably never earn him the right to have his likeness etched on any national monuments. Tina looked and often sounded like the high school cheerleader she once was. Bottle blond and relentlessly perky with a body that wouldn’t quit. Robby hoped she looked half as good when she reached Tina’s age.

  TJ and Paula Crenshaw entered the room next. TJ was the spitting image of his father. Minus the gray hair. No wonder Miles used to want to jump his bones. Paula was hot, too—in a soccer mom kind of way. They made a cute couple. The football hero turned lawyer and the student body president-cum-stay-at-home mom.

  Robby turned to see who would walk in next.

  “Look, there she is.”

  Taylor walked in, her hand draped on the arm of Portia Thomas. Taylor was wearing a sleeveless black gown and satin-covered heels that looked like Jimmy Choos. Two small diamond studs glittered in her ears. The silver chain around her neck and the sterling silver cuff around her right wrist were simple but stunning.

  “Isn’t she gorgeous?” Robby asked.

  “Which one?”

  At Taylor’s side, Portia was resplendent in her dress uniform. Her shoulders squared and her posture perfect, she looked like an image on a recruiting poster. Was that the reason Taylor had invited her tonight? To make it marginally more acceptable for her audience—both the one in the room and the larger one watching on TV—to see her with a woman on her arm?

  “Look,” Miles said, pointing to a corner of the room. “There’s Steven. Isn’t he handsome?”

  Robby looked away from Taylor and Portia long enough to glance at Steven, who was keeping a close eye on Taylor from a discreet distance. The hulking Samoan was dressed in a tux instead of the cheap suit he was wearing the day he accompanied Taylor to the antique store. His short, curly black hair contained just enough gel to make him look stylish instead of oily. And his crisp white shirt contrasted nicely with his light brown skin. Robby had to admit Mr. Big did look pretty darn good. But not as good as the woman he was guarding.

  “You’re drooling again,” Miles said.

  “Speak for yourself.” Robby watched Taylor take her seat. Portia sat next to her. Robby wondered how many gossip columns would speculate if the two were an item. “I guess it’s up to me to set the record straight. So to speak.”

  “What is it you do, dear?” one of their dinner companions asked.

  “My associate and I are in antiquities,” Robby said.

  The woman, as haughty and bejeweled as a dowager countess on a public television series, sniffed and said, “I think you mean antiques, don’t you?”

  The one thing Robby hated more than being broke all the time was being condescended to. Miles squeezed her hand to prevent her from flying off the handle. “Have you changed your mind about what you’re doing?” he asked in a whisper.

  Robby spread her napkin in her lap. “What do you mean?”

  “I see the way you’re looking at…her.” He nearly tripped over his tongue trying to keep from saying Taylor’s name out loud. “Are you sure you don’t want her to be anything more than an unwitting source?”

  “Positive. I’m horrible at relationships, but I’m the best when it comes to digging up dirt. And, whether she knows it or not, she’s going to tell me where all the bodies are buried.”

  The wait staff served the salads, followed soon after by the main course—white truffle potatoes and roasted chicken breasts stuffed with prosciutto, spinach, and sun-dried tomatoes. Robby hadn’t eaten this well in months. Okay, years. She took a picture of her plate so she could post it on Instagram. The woman across the table grunted in disapproval.

  “I guess I shouldn’t bother asking her to join me for a selfie after dessert.”

  “Don’t look now,” Miles said, wiping his mouth with a linen napkin, “but here comes trouble.”

  Robby looked up to see her former lover approaching the table. Sheridan Kincaid, decked out in Dior and diamonds, looked incredible as always. Her green eyes glittered with what looked like merriment from a distance but, upon closer inspection, revealed itself to be malevolence. Would they ever be able to let bygones be b
ygones? Robby wasn’t there yet, and Sheridan didn’t seem to be either.

  “Did someone check your invitations?” Sheridan asked loud enough for everyone at the table to hear. “I didn’t think they let just anyone into these events.”

  Robby told herself not to get drawn into a confrontation, but she had been on the receiving end of more than her fair share of Sheridan’s withering putdowns and she’d had her fill. “For your information, our invitation was delivered personally by—”

  Miles kicked Robby in the shin to prevent her from saying anything else. He arched his eyebrows apologetically, but that didn’t dampen the pain.

  “Nice dress.” Sheridan eyed Robby’s gown. “Which department store will you be returning it to in the morning?”

  Robby flinched but didn’t take the bait this time. She would love to have five good minutes alone with her ex, but the inaugural ball was not the appropriate setting for a knock-down, drag-out fight. They were in a museum, not a back alley. “To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?” she asked, allowing Sheridan to take the latest round in their ongoing battle.

  “I saw you across the room and couldn’t believe my eyes.” Sheridan’s Virginia accent grew thicker, the same way it always did when she was shoveling shit. “I had to come over and say hello.”

  “Now that you have, how quickly will you be saying good-bye?”

  “Why, Roberta, you sound positively unhappy to see me. I know that can’t be the case, considering all we’ve meant to each other.”

  “If I meant so much to you, why am I part of your past instead of your present?”

  “Why? Do you miss me?”

  Robby swallowed a familiar hurt. An ache that wouldn’t go away, no matter how hard she tried to ignore it. The pain of rejection. “Trust me,” she said with as much bravado as she could muster. “I’ve moved on.”

  As her parents waltzed across the dance floor, staring into each other’s eyes as if they were the only people in the room, Taylor whispered something in Portia’s ear and rose from her seat. Portia pulled her chair out for her, but didn’t follow. Neither did Steven. With so much security on the premises, the building was probably the safest place in town, negating his need to shadow Taylor’s every move.

  Taylor slowly passed by Robby’s table, then looked back to make sure she was watching. When their eyes met, the slight tilt of her head extended a wordless invitation. This could be the moment Robby had been waiting for. She nodded in Taylor’s direction, then pushed her chair away from the table.

  “If you’ll excuse me.”

  Sheridan lowered her voice to a whisper as she gripped Robby’s arm. “Are you and Taylor Crenshaw an item?” she asked incredulously. “Surely you aren’t foolish enough to set your sights that high.”

  Robby pulled free, feeling victorious. “As I said, I’ve moved on.”

  Chapter Six

  Taylor lingered at the sink, hoping the crowd would thin a bit before Robby walked into the bathroom. She pressed a hand to her stomach as the contents threatened to hit reverse. She and Portia had downed a couple of beers during the limo ride from the White House, and, once they arrived, the champagne had been flowing freely. She hadn’t had a chance to eat much of her dinner because someone seemed to want something from her every time she tried to take a bite.

  She would kill for a burger and a side of fries. Maybe she could persuade her limo driver to make a pit stop at McDonald’s before they headed over to the Ronald Reagan Building. Doubtful. She was on such a tight schedule, she barely had time to breathe, let alone eat.

  She needed to get back to the table before her parents started wondering where she was. But she wasn’t going anywhere until she had a chance to tell Robby how gorgeous she looked tonight. Seeing her—even from a distance—had taken her breath away. Portia’s, too.

  “It’s against the rules for me to date a friend’s ex,” Portia had said between the numerous toasts from her father’s well-wishers, “but if you’re crazy enough to walk away from a woman like that, let me know when so I can swoop in and pick up your slack.”

  Taylor’s resulting giggle fit had earned her a reproachful look from her mother, but the moment of levity was more than worth the silent reprimand.

  “I hope your next assignment doesn’t come through anytime soon, PT,” she had said. “I like having you around.”

  “And I dig having a world famous wingman,” Portia had replied. “How much longer before we can get out of here and start having some real fun?”

  “Give me ten minutes.”

  Taylor put her hands under the faucet and let them linger, enjoying the feel of the cold water washing over her skin. Was it hot in here, or was she imagining things?

  “If your hands were any cleaner, they’d be sterile enough to perform surgery. Are you thinking of applying to medical school, or are you developing an unfortunate case of OCD?”

  Taylor quickly identified the voice responsible for the thick cloud of Chanel No. 5 assaulting her sinuses. The woman addressing her was Candy Ferrell, the wife of one of her father’s biggest campaign contributors. Candy was pushing sixty, but a recent nip and tuck made her look like an overtired thirty-year-old.

  “Neither, I’m afraid.” Taylor turned off the water, and the bathroom attendant handed her a towel so she could dry her hands.

  Robby walked in as Taylor dropped a five-dollar bill into the attendant’s tip jar. Her pewter gown shimmered with tiny rhinestone accents. She looked like a star shooting across a dusky sky. Taylor would gladly catch her if she fell to earth.

  Robby positioned herself in front of the bank of mirrors and began to touch up her lipstick—a chore Taylor had been hoping Robby would need to perform after they saw each other, not before.

  Taylor dragged her eyes off Robby and returned her attention to the bejeweled woman with shellacked unnaturally red hair who was coming perilously close to invading her personal space.

  Candy’s left hand closed around Taylor’s wrist. Her diamond-studded wedding ring ground painfully against the delicate bones. “I’ve been trying to get you alone since last February.”

  After a second place finish in the Iowa primary and a resounding win in New Hampshire a week later, Taylor’s father had established himself as a serious contender for the office he would earn nine months later. Taylor, busy monitoring the Democratic and independent candidates, hadn’t gone along for the ride. Now she prepared herself to receive a lecture from one of her father’s staunchest supporters.

  “Really? What did you want to talk to me about? If you’re looking for someone who has my father’s ear, I’m afraid you’ll have to look elsewhere.”

  Candy lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “It isn’t your father’s ears I’m worried about. It’s everyone else’s. Washington leaks like a sieve. It helps to have someone you can talk to. Someone you can trust. We have similar interests, you and I.” She loosened her grip and stroked Taylor’s bare forearm with one orange-hued finger.

  Taylor noted Candy had been as heavy-handed with her bottle of spray tan as she had with her vat of Chanel. She took a quick look around the room. Candy’s overpowering perfume and overbearing presence had driven everyone else away. If Taylor could get rid of her now and exchange the attendant’s five for a fifty, she and Robby could have a few blessed minutes alone. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing.

  “If you ever find yourself in need of a confidante, perhaps I can be the person you turn to.” Candy slowly ran her bright pink tongue over her collagen-filled lips. “I think you’d find me to be a really good…listener.”

  “Uh, thank you for the offer. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Taylor tried not to recoil as she realized Candy was coming on to her. She hadn’t been on the receiving end of such a clumsy advance since high school when one of the hormone-addled members of the debate club had unsuccessfully tried to pick her up. Even though she wasn’t remotely interested in Candy’s offer, she couldn’
t risk offending her. If her father ended up falling on his proverbial sword one day, she wasn’t going to be the one wielding the blade. Her mind raced as she tried to think of a way to extricate herself from the awkward situation. Robby came to her rescue.

  “Excuse me, Miss Crenshaw.” Robby placed her hand in the small of Taylor’s back and ushered her away like an overly zealous Secret Service agent trying to get her out of the line of fire. “I think it’s time we rejoined the festivities, don’t you?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Taylor tossed a “duty calls” shrug in Candy’s direction as she allowed Robby to lead her out the door.

  “I leave you alone for two seconds and look what happens,” Robby said.

  Taylor laughed. “I never said I could be trusted.”

  “Obviously. The question is, should you be punished?”

  “Yes, please,” Taylor said eagerly.

  Robby made a beeline for a door marked Employees Only. She twisted the knob, which Taylor expected to be locked. Instead, the knob turned freely. Robby pushed the door open, pulled Taylor inside, and locked the door behind them.

  Taylor leaned against a shelf teeming with industrial-sized containers of cleaning supplies. “I’m in a closet. How ironic. And yet, how appropriate.”

  Robby ran a hand through Taylor’s hair. “You look beautiful.”

  “Thank you. So do you.”

  “Are you having fun?”

  Taylor put her hands on Robby’s waist and pulled her closer. She wanted to get lost in the swirl of taffeta and silk. She wanted to get lost in Robby. “I am now.”

  “Are you sure your date isn’t wondering where you are? I wouldn’t want her to send a search party after you. Wait. She’s a Marine. She’s more likely to be leading the posse than following along behind it.”

  “Portia may not know where I am, but she knows who I’m with. I think she can figure out the rest.”

  Robby cupped Taylor’s cheeks. Her hands were soft and warm as she slowly slid them along the sides of Taylor’s neck, across her shoulders, and down her arms. Taylor’s breath hitched when Robby brought her mouth close to hers. “I would kiss you, but we aren’t wearing the same shade.”