by Susan Wiggs
“Thank you again,” Nina said to Orlando. “I’m going to enjoy it a lot, I’m sure.”
“You’re more than welcome.” His phone buzzed, and he checked it. “Sure wish I could stay longer, but duty calls.”
“I’m going to head over to the venue with Orlando,” Sonnet said. “I’ll see you there, Mom.”
“You sure she’s up to it?” he asked, once they were out of earshot.
“She’s sick, not brain dead,” Sonnet said. “It’s good for her to get out. For me, too. I haven’t seen my dad in a long time. I know he doesn’t have much time, but let’s hope he can spare a little.”
A beat passed. Then Orlando said, “Yes, sure. I know he’d love to see you.”
She stopped in her tracks. “You cannot be serious. You’re worried about the press.”
“You know me. I worry about everything.”
“I’m not exactly a deep, dark secret. I’ve been front and center in lots of his bios.”
“Yes, but that was when—”
“When what? Oh, I see. When I had a prestigious job with UNESCO. Now I’m just a slacker, right?”
“You never know how they’re going to spin things.”
“But you know, right?”
“It’s my job to know.”
“And how are they going to spin things?”
“Delvecchio will put forth something to cast you in the least flattering light—maybe trying to get people to speculate on why you turned down the most prestigious fellowship in your field.”
“No speculation needed. I’ll simply say I’m attending to a family matter. If they need more detail, well, I’ll deal.” She hated the idea of bringing up her mother’s condition.
“Sonnet, I’m really sorry. I’d protect you from all of this if I could.”
“News flash. I don’t need protecting.”
“That’s admirable of you, even brave, but is it going to help your father for you to march out in public just to show how brave you are?”
“It’s not going to hurt him.”
“We can’t be sure of that.”
She glared out the window, reminding herself that Orlando was a professional, a campaign operative. Her father had a reputation for surrounding himself with the best possible people. Orlando was at the core of Laurence Jeffries’s inner circle, and if she wanted to belong there, too, she had to play along.
They got out near the campaign bus. The area swarmed like a kicked anthill. News vans disgorged coils of thick cables, camera and sound equipment. Orlando stopped amid some stacks of campaign placards and took both of Sonnet’s hands. “Honey, I wish we had more time. I miss you. I do. More than I ever thought I would.”
“I miss you, too,” she said, softening toward him. “Think how much worse it would be if I’d taken the fellowship. I’d be overseas, not just a few hours from the city.”
“Sure, but at least if you’d taken the fellowship, you’d be getting ahead in your career.”
“And being here for my mother just doesn’t rate with you.” She felt a fresh twinge of annoyance.
He chuckled. “I think you’re determined to pick a fight with me just so we can kiss and make up.”
“Right. That’s exactly what I’m thinking.”
“Tell you what. I’ll come back for the weekend if I can get away. Or you could come down to the city.”
“I’d like that. Maybe—”
His phone buzzed again. “Your father’s here. Let’s go say hello.”
The venue for the debate was the auditorium of the public library. The venerable old building, made of blocky Gothic gray stone, now swarmed with inquisitive voters, high school civics students, and of course the ever-present media, dragging their cables and equipment over the flower beds in the front, the on-camera reporters earnest and self-important as they blocked out the broadcasts that would air on the evening news. The debate itself would be televised and no doubt analyzed and parsed through, each word and gesture weighed and discussed by commentators.
“You look amazed,” said Orlando.
“I think I’m finally starting to get the gravity of the situation,” she said, recognizing Rachel Maddow, perfectly made up and looking sharp as a treble hook. Behind her came more familiar faces from rival networks—CNN, Fox, and talent from the local affiliates of the other big networks.
“This particular Senate seat matters more than most people realize,” Orlando agreed. “The outcome will likely tip the numbers to give us a guaranteed majority—but only if your father wins.”
They found General Jeffries in a side office of the library, which was serving as a greenroom before the debate. He was surrounded by people doing his makeup and sound check, but when he saw Sonnet, he held up a hand to put a halt to the proceedings.
“Hi Dad,” she said, giving him a hug.
“What do you think?” he asked, spreading his hands. “Am I going to do all right in your hometown?”
He looked dazzling as always, in an impeccably tailored suit cut to accentuate his imposing height, polished shoes, a burgundy silk tie. Every hair was in place and even the anti-shine makeup didn’t look strange on him. She knew that each detail, from his West Point class ring to the tiny pin in his lapel, had been carefully chosen for him based on feedback from focus groups. And as always, his attention made her feel like the only person in the room.
“You look like the perfect candidate.”
“I’d rather look like the perfect senator. The problem is, so would my opponent.”
“The best man will win,” she assured him. “And you’re the best.”
“Thank you, Sonnet. Wish I had more time to spend with you,” he said.
“My mom needs me now,” Sonnet said, remembering how upset he’d been with her at their last meeting. She hated the idea of disappointing him. “You understand, right?”
“Of course.” His eyes narrowed. “What did you do to your hair?”
“I had it cut off for a wig for my mom.”
He gave a little laugh of disbelief and set his hands on his hips. “You don’t say.”
“It’s no joke,” she assured him.
“That’s very generous of you, Sonnet.”
“Not really. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for my mom. Same goes for you, too,” she added. “Just so you know.”
“And I’m sure your mother appreciates that as much as I do.” He touched her hand briefly. “We didn’t raise you together, I know. But she raised a good daughter. I hope she knows I’m grateful for that.”
You could tell her, thought Sonnet. Then she tucked the thought away. Even now, she sometimes fantasized—if only for a blink of time—about what it would be like to have her parents together, a traditional family. However, her father would not be telling her mother anything personal so long as it was campaign season. According to Orlando, he couldn’t even risk sending a get-well note to what the opposition termed a former flame.
“I’ll make sure to tell her,” she said, trying to sound upbeat.
“Excuse me,” said Orlando, who was standing by the door. “I think you’re in the wrong place.”
“Not,” said Jezebel, striding into the room. She was dressed in bright yellow silk and snug jeans covered in zippers, and a pair of platform sandals that made her seem even taller than usual. She grinned at Sonnet. “Hey, baby girl,” she said. “I came to meet your daddy.”
Startled but pleased, Sonnet turned to her da
d. “This is Jezebel,” she said. “Jezebel, my father, Laurence Jeffries.”
“Pleasure to meet you.” Jezebel stuck out her hand.
“Likewise,” Laurence said, exuding poise.
Sonnet suspected she was the only one who could tell her father was less than pleased. Although he smiled and offered a powerful candidate’s handshake, there was a distinct chill in his eyes.
“Looking forward to the debate,” Jezebel said. “I’d say you got my vote, but I’m one of those nonvoters.” With a slightly mischievous smile, she added, “If you get what I mean.”
“I get it,” Laurence said, his stiff demeanor betraying his discomfort. Other than race, these two had absolutely nothing in common. And Jezebel seemed completely amused by that fact.
“I’ll be rooting for you. I’ll be holding up a sign.”
Sonnet glanced over at Orlando. He was far less practiced than her father at concealing his disapproval. You don’t know her, Sonnet wanted to yell at them both. You don’t know her, and you’re already judging her.
“Thank you. And now, duty calls. I need to get ready for the debate.”
Sonnet tamped down her frustration. It was hard being the daughter of a public figure, even here in Avalon. Maybe especially here in Avalon. She left the greenroom, followed by Orlando and Jezebel. “Come on,” she said, “I’ll give you a nickel tour of the library.”
“That’s all we’re worth to you?” Maureen Haven, the town librarian, was putting out a sign that read Closed for Special Event on the circulation desk. “A lousy nickel?”
“You’re priceless,” said Sonnet. “Maureen, I’d like you to meet Orlando Rivera and Jezebel.”
“Welcome to my domain.” Maureen beamed. Unlike Sonnet’s father and Orlando, she was completely sincere as she greeted Jezebel. “I’m a fan,” she added. “My husband’s in the music business, and he introduced me to your music.”
“No shit?” Jezebel stood even taller. “Thanks.”
“Your music circulates like crazy here,” Maureen told her. “Especially since you came to town.”
“I appreciate that,” Jezebel said.
“I hope you’ll come back during regular hours,” said Maureen. “I have to go help out in the auditorium now.”
“Can I take them up to the children’s collection?” Sonnet asked.
“Sure. I’ll see you later.”
“This place was my home away from home when I was growing up in Avalon,” Sonnet said to Orlando and Jezebel, leading the way up the white marble stairs that flanked the atrium. “I came here nearly every day after school or sports practice to read and do homework until my mom finished work.” She stopped at the top step. “My friends and I used to play wedding on these stairs. They’re so curvy and dramatic. We’d parade up and down them, humming the wedding march.”
Orlando chuckled. “Were you the bridesmaid, or the bride?”
“Do you even have to ask? The bride, of course, even if it meant knocking Georgina Wilson down off her pedestal.”
“And you didn’t get shushed by the librarian?” Jezebel asked.
“Yes, but in a nice way. It was…perfect for me here.” She continued to the mezzanine level and they looked down at the marble atrium of the building with the two-story foyer clock in the middle. The black-and-white floor tiles resembled pictures she’d seen of the Alhambra in Spain, a graphic kaleidoscope like something out of a dream. “I loved coming here. It always felt so…safe. I was allowed to read any book I wanted. No one interrupted me, or if they did, it was done gently and with respect. I always wished the rest of the world would be run like a library.” She smiled up at him. “I still think that.”
He didn’t see the smile; he was leaning over the iron railing, perusing the gathering crowd of media.
Jezebel was paging through a book on Neapolitan art. “I agree with Sonnet. Run the world like a library, and we got nothing to fight about.”
Orlando ignored her, too. “Check it out—that’s Courtney Procter,” he said, indicating a reporter in a melon-colored suit. Her blond hair was as solid as a helmet and she carried herself with the poise of a prom queen. “She’s in Delvecchio’s camp, although she’d never admit it. And she likes to go for the cheap shot.”
“By cheap shot you mean…?”
“Personal stuff. She’ll find a way to bring up the breach of security at NATO headquarters when your father was in charge, or his daughter Layla’s suspension from boarding school.”
“There was a breach of security?” Sonnet was flabbergasted. “And Layla was suspended from school?” She couldn’t believe her perfect half-sister could have done something to get herself suspended.
“No, and no. That’s what makes it so insidious. Just by mentioning these things, she plants a seed of doubt. That’s her M.O., anyway.” He patted Sonnet’s hand. “I need to head down to the auditorium, make sure the general’s final briefing is going okay.”
“Tell him to break a leg.”
“Jezebel, it was nice meeting you.” Orlando leaned down and brushed a kiss on Sonnet’s forehead. “See you after the show.”
Chapter Fifteen
Sonnet watched Orlando go, carrying himself with smooth confidence as he went to the crowded foyer of the library. His sense of purpose when he was in work mode never failed to impress.
“So that’s Orlando,” she said to Jezebel.
“He’s like you said he’d be,” Jezebel said, “only even prettier.”
“You noticed.” Sonnet smoothed the front of her jacket, observing Orlando as he wove his way through the crowd. He was exactly the kind of person to run a high-stakes political campaign. From the very start, her father had told her Orlando would go far. Once the election was won, he’d stay on, crafting fundraisers and perhaps a campaign for an even higher office.
“Pretty is as pretty does,” Jezebel said. “So you really think he’s the one?”
Sonnet hesitated, wishing she didn’t feel so confused. Back in the city, she’d liked being part of that world, the whirlwind that surrounded her father. Yet the longer she stayed in Avalon, the farther away that world seemed. “We’re great together,” she said finally.
“I ain’t convinced,” said Jezebel, watching him go into the auditorium.
“Convinced of what?”
Jezebel showed Sonnet a photo on her phone. “You want to know what being with the wrong man can do to you? That’s what it can do to you.”
Sonnet winced at the graphic shot. Jezebel was barely recognizable in the mug shot, her cheeks and lips battered and split, one eye swollen shut and bleeding from a cut on the brow. “That’s how I looked the night of my arrest. The son of a bitch beat the crap out of me so I left him a little message spray painted on his dog. Wrecked his prized possession, too—his BMW Roadster.”
“God, I’m sorry, Jezebel. I’m so sorry you had to go through that. But my situation with Orlando is nothing like this. We get along fine. He’d never, ever lay a hand on me.”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t. But there are a lot of ways loving the wrong man can crush you.”
“Orlando and I…we’re…trying to make this work.”
“Girl, you tie yourself in knots over that dude. You’re trying too hard. I’ve seen it. Look at you, with your fine education and fierce smarts. You’re not cut out to be any man’s trained lapdog.”
* * *
Sonnet made her way down the stairs, checking the VIP ticket Orlando
had given her. Row Q. That was the closest he could get her to her own father?
Her phone vibrated, signaling a text message. Her mom had just arrived and was waiting under the big clock.
For a moment, Sonnet couldn’t pick her out of the crowd. Then she spotted her and was struck by how lovely her mother was, standing there with the golden light of early evening slanting through the oriel windows high above the atrium. She wore a loose silk top that flowed gracefully over her baby bump, skinny jeans and nice wedge sandals. With a pair of shades perched atop the handmade wig, and the bag they’d picked out together at the boutique, she looked stylish, hardly a cancer victim. But Sonnet could see the fatigue around her eyes and the hollow spots in her cheeks. The illness lay over every moment, like a cloud that wouldn’t go away.
“You’re by yourself,” she said, crossing the foyer to Nina. “Greg didn’t come?”
“He can’t get too excited about seeing Laurence.” Nina gave a wry smile.
“I understand.” Even though Nina and Laurence were ancient history, Sonnet’s very existence was proof that the two of them had once been young and foolish—and, happily for Sonnet, productive—together. “You look fantastic, by the way.”
“Thanks. Not feeling so hot, though.”
Sonnet’s stomach clenched. “Can I get you something? Water, or…?”
“I’ve got a bottle of water in my bag,” Nina said. “I need to eat more but my appetite is completely shot.”
“Aw, Mom. Remember what the doc told you. You’re not just eating for two. You’re eating to survive.”
“I know. I’ll try. Greg brought home a bacon and cheese quiche from Sky River Bakery. If I can’t eat that, I’m doomed.”
“Don’t say doomed.”
Nina chuckled. “Done for, then. Dead meat.”
“Stop it.” Sonnet felt a cold rock of dread in her stomach. She tried to ignore it as she nudged her mother. “Want to meet Angela Jeffries?”
“Laurence’s wife?” Nina raised her brushed-on eyebrows. “I won’t pretend I’m not burning up with curiosity.”