The President's Daughter

by Mariah Stewart

  "I didn't realize how late it was," Dina said. "I have a meeting at borough hall tonight with the volunteers for the new memorial park project."

  "What time?"

  "Eight. But I'm hoping to get there a little early to catch up with Don Fletcher. I want to speak with him about building some benches for the memorial garden."

  "Oh." Jude's voice brightened. "Isn't Don that good-looking carpenter who worked with you on the gazebo for the park?"

  Dina rolled her eyes. "You know perfectly well who he is. Don't get any ideas."

  "Whatever do you mean?"

  "Mom, you are about as subtle as a sledgehammer. But for the record, I'm not interested in Don. He's a good carpenter; he's a nice man. He's been very generous with donating his time and his talents to the community projects we've been working on."

  "And ... ?"

  "And nothing. That's it. I really don't have any interest in him other than a professional one."

  "Pity." Jude sighed. She knew her daughter well, knew when to give up. "Why not stop by on your way back home, if you're not too late? I'm thinking about making a cranberry apple cobbler."

  "Bribery," Dina muttered. "Some mothers will resort to anything to keep their offspring tied to their apron strings."

  "Whatever works."

  "Unfortunately, I think tonight I'll have to take a rain check. I have a big day at the shop tomorrow and I'm beat. Polly and I worked day and night during the Valentine's Day rush."

  Dina glanced at the clock. "Mom, I have to run. I need to shower and grab a bite before the meeting. I'll give you a call in the morning."

  Dina hung up the phone, then, slinging the forgotten bag of perlite into a bin under the table she kept for that purpose, dusted her hands off on her jeans. She took one quick glance at the primroses that sat under the grow lights, then, satisfied that all was well, grabbed her jacket, turned off the overhead light, and locked up for the night.

  Alone in the frosty air of late February, Dina paused between the greenhouse and the carriage house that served as her home. Against a darkening pink-and-gold evening sky geese flew in a precise wedge over the flat fields, and somewhere in the distance an owl hooted. Dina smiled. All was right with her particular world at that particular moment. She climbed the three steps leading to the porch of the carriage house, searching her pockets for the key, then unlocked the door and walked into the quiet of the small entry.

  The clock ticked loudly from the wall, and she scowled as she passed it to turn on the light. She'd found the clock at a yard sale in town six months ago, and no matter how many times she changed the batteries, the damned thing still kept erratic time. Tonight it read 1:45. Dina sighed and made a mental note: Buy new clock.

  She passed through the small dining area and slid her jacket onto the back of one of the four chairs. The table was cluttered with several piles of mail, magazines, and other assorted stacks of papers. Contracts for future jobs, bills relating to the business, household bills, phone messages, sketches, each had their own place on the table. It was the only way Dina could keep things straight.

  In her all-white kitchen, Dina filled a pot of water and placed it on the stove to boil for pasta, then assembled all she would need for her dinner. While the water simmered, she went to the living room window and looked out toward the former Aldrich farm, which Dina had purchased the year before primarily for its acreage. The lights were on in the kitchen windows of the old yellow farmhouse where her assistant, Polly Valentine, was making dinner for her daughter, Erin.

  That same old yellow farmhouse that Dina had purchased with an eye toward living in herself.

  That had been her original plan. The fates, it would seem, had something else in mind.

  When Dina had started looking for a property from which to run her business, the only suitable place available had been the seven acres with the carriage house in which she now lived. At one time there had been a farmhouse, but that had been burned to the ground by vagrants years earlier and since the owners, who lived in town, rented out their fields to a neighbor, the house had never been rebuilt. With money from a trust fund, Dina had purchased the seven acres with an eye toward eventually buying the adjacent ten-acre property when it came up for sale. Three years later, it had, and she'd successfully bid to purchase it from the previous owners' estate. However, squabbles within the sellers' family had held up the sale for almost eleven months. By the time the sale had been finalized, Dina had already turned the carriage house into comfortable living quarters and was just too busy to take on the restoration of the aging farmhouse.

  It was just about that time that Jude had come across Polly Valentine and had suggested that Dina meet the fragile young woman with the sad past.

  Polly, a refugee from a bad marriage, had taken a well-aimed swing at her abusive ex-husband with a baseball bat as he attempted to sneak into her apartment after repeatedly threatening harm to her and her child. Unable to make bail, she'd spent five months in prison, awaiting trial for assault. Though she'd been acquitted, she'd lost almost half a year out of her life, along with her job at a flower shop, her self-respect, and, most important, her nine-year-old daughter, Erin. Jude, a volunteer teacher at the county prison, had met Polly there and had seen something in the young woman's eyes that had drawn her to the courtroom when Polly's trial began. On the day Polly was acquitted, Jude waited for her outside the courthouse, and learning that Polly had no place to go, Jude had taken

  Polly home. It hadn't taken much for Jude to talk her daughter into hiring Polly on at the shop and renting out the farmhouse to her. After all, Dina needed help, Polly needed a job and a home, and the old farmhouse needed painting. It was a given that Dina, already living comfortably in her carriage house, would never find the time to do it.

  It was the best decision Dina had ever made. Polly was a natural with flowers, and she had become a huge asset to the business. She was also a good friend.

  The water started to boil, and Dina unceremoniously dumped the pasta into the pot. A second, smaller pot of marinara sauce began to simmer as Dina went into her small office at the end of the hall and took a yellow file from the desk. She cleared a space at the table, then returned to the kitchen, the file under her arm, and, standing up, ate the leftover salad from lunch. The timer went off on the pasta, and she drained it absently, her mind on the yellow folder and the work order within. She prepared a plate, then headed back to the dining room, where she ate with her left hand while her right hand played with the sketches from the folder, landscaping plans for another of the new houses being built out along the river. This one was a beautifully designed redbrick Federal-style house from its roof to its windows.

  And Mrs. Fisher, the owner, was insisting on what she termed a "wild English country garden." Despite Dina's gentle suggestion that perhaps something slightly more structured might be more appropriate for this particular home and property, Mrs. Fisher would not be shaken from her vision of oceans of waving delphiniums and phlox, hollyhocks and roses. The best

  Dina could hope for was to plan the beds in a manner that would complement, rather than overwhelm, the architecture. To this end, she played with sketches of a walled garden with a patio and a bricked walk that would wind around a series of raised beds. Back against the walls, the tall perennials would appear more graceful, less serendipitous, than in smaller beds closer to the formal house. Those small beds were just right for an herb garden, the scale of which would be in better proportion to the back of the house, the function more in keeping with the era the Fishers were trying to recreate.

  Dina downed the last now-cold bite of rotini just as the alarm on her watch alerted her to the fact that it was coming up on seven. If she was to be in town in an hour, she needed to get into the shower now. She closed her file, took the dishes into the kitchen to rinse, then locked the back door before heading up the narrow stairs to her bedroom, where she stripped off her work clothes. As she hastened toward the bathroom, she caught a blurred gla
nce in the mirror of her tall, lean body, her robe slung over her shoulder. Even to herself, she appeared to be hurried and just a little haggard. She turned on the shower and worked the elastic and pins out of her dark hair and hoped that a few minutes under steaming water would revive her.

  All too soon, the hot water started to lose pressure, and Dina knew it would take another ten minutes for it to get back up to speed. She turned off the shower and stepped out onto the thick cotton rug that covered the cold tile and dried her hair quickly. Dressed in khakis and a blue sweater, she grabbed her jacket, her purse, and the yellow file of sketches she'd prepared, then headed out the door. It would only take five or so minutes to drive into Henderson proper, but she did want to catch Don Fletcher as early as possible.

  A light snow had started to fall, and the front steps were already beginning to slick. She climbed into her Explorer and drove past the greenhouse, then the shop, and finally through the small parking lot.

  Dina passed by the ancient apple orchard, the acres of Christmas trees, accelerating as she passed the farmhouse, her thoughts focused on the reflecting pool she had in mind for the new park and who among the volunteers she might talk into digging it.

  Dina's meeting with the volunteers took less than an hour, and she was anxious to get home and crawl into bed.

  The whole drive home, Dina's mind was occupied with work. Perhaps, when Polly was ready to take on more responsibility with the shop, she might have a little bit more time for herself and the things she liked best about the business. The prospect of spending more time on the design end of the business cheered her. She pushed open the door and stepped into the quiet of the narrow front hall, the only sound the bubbling from the fish tank in the living room.

  Less time in the shop would give her more time, too, maybe, to spend out at the trade school, where there were so many students willing to learn the basics of landscaping, as she'd discovered through her volunteer work there.

  Less time in the shop would mean she could almost—maybe—have a life apart from her work.

  Fancy that, she thought wryly as she locked the door behind her and hung up her jacket.

  She toed off her boots and left them near the door, pausing to flip through the day's mail. A few bills, a catalog or two, and a card from a friend who'd just returned from a honeymoon in Hawaii, complete with a photo of the happy couple, who sat at a table in a restaurant, leis draped around their necks. The camera had caught them gazing into each other's eyes rather than at the photographer, and their love for each other shone so brightly in their eyes and in their smiles that Dina had the fleeting feeling that she'd somehow intruded into their privacy.

  She slid the photo back into the envelope and tried to ignore the ache of envy that swept through her. She'd never looked at anyone the way Cara was looking at Tom in that photo. It was a subtle reminder that for all she'd accomplished in her business, she still went to bed alone every night.

  Chapter Four

  Within three weeks of having met with Philip Norton, Simon had found a furnished town house to sublet in Arlington, packed up his belongings, and bid adieu to the run-down neighborhood he'd called home for the past several months. He'd also viewed eighteen hours of videotapes and read mountains of newspaper and magazine articles relating to the late President Graham T. Hayward. Simon had made a tentative list of people he'd like to speak with, then, using the Internet, set about the business of figuring out who on that list was still among the living.

  He'd positively eliminated seven of the names and was in the process of checking into yet another when the phone rang. Simon stepped over a pile of magazines and sorted through a stack of newspapers to locate the phone.

  "Keller."

  "Philip Norton here, Simon. How's it going?"

  "Good. Fine." He managed to grab a magazine that was sliding toward the edge of the table and stop its forward motion.

  "I wanted you to know that I've read the pages of Lethal Deceptions you sent me." Norton drew on his pipe. "I'm pleased with what I've seen. Your book has a lot of promise, Simon. It needs work, needs polish, but it has great potential."

  "Really." Simon sat on the edge of the sofa, drinking in the news as eagerly as a dusty field drinks in the summer rain. "You really think so."

  "Yes. I really do." Another puff on the pipe. "I have a few suggestions that we'll talk about when the time comes, but all in all, I think it is quite good."

  "Thank you, Philip." Simon felt the slow release of a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

  "Now, how are you doing with the project at hand? Have you had time to look over any of the materials I sent to you?"

  "You mean the fourteen boxes of documentary videos, newspaper and magazine articles, and interview transcripts?"

  "Yes."

  "I've been plowing through them since they arrived."

  "And?"

  "And I'm starting to develop a feel for the subject. Hayward appears to have been a man who had many more friends than enemies. I started making a list of people I'd like to speak with and was just trying to track them down through the Internet."

  Norton cleared his throat. "Who's on your list, if I may ask?"

  "Well, I suppose the dead ones don't much matter," Simon muttered while he shuffled a few more papers in search of his list. "Of the ones who I know are still alive, I'm having the most difficulty hunting down Aaron Follows, Mike Huntley, and Miles Kendall."

  "The last I heard, Follows was living in San Diego, but I can check that for you. Huntley I'd steer away from. And as for Miles Ken—"

  "Why?"

  "Why what?"

  "Why steer away from Huntley?"

  "Because he's a mean-spirited SOB who spent most of his time on the Hill starting feuds between other people. He won't have anything good to say about anyone, but of course, it's your call." Norton added, "It is your book, Simon."

  Simon got that feeling again—that Norton was keeping something from him. He found it annoying. Of course, he would track down and interview Mike Huntley, whether Norton wanted him to or not.

  "What about Miles Kendall? I can't seem to bring up an address for him, though Social Security indicates he's still alive. As Hayward's Chief of Staff, I thought he'd have some interesting anecdotes to share."

  "Well, he probably does, but he won't remember any of them. Kendall's an Alzheimer's patient. From what I understand, he recalls nothing of his days in the White House."

  "I'm sorry to hear that. Having been so close to the President for so long;—he was a Rhode Island boy, too, I understand... ."

  "And a Brown grad as well."

  "Yes, I saw that someplace. You must have known him well."

  "We knew each other, yes. We have lost touch in the years since the President died."

  "You and Kendall weren't close friends, then?"

  "We were both closer to the President than we were to each other." Norton appeared to choose his words carefully.

  "You wouldn't happen to know where I could find him, would you?"

  "He's in a nursing home."

  "Do you know where that nursing home might be?" Simon had the distinct feeling he was being played with, and he didn't like it.

  "He's in Saint Margaret's, in Linden."

  "Linden, Maryland?" Simon's brows rose.

  "Yes. I think I recall hearing something about Kendall having been ill and living with a nephew for a time; then the nephew was transferred to Houston and he made arrangements for Kendall to be moved to Saint Margaret's."

  "No children?"

  "No. Kendall never married." Norton paused before asking, "I suppose you'll be seeing him as well as Huntley?"

  Simon laughed. "With any luck."

  "Who else do you have there?"

  "The only other person I have on my short list is Adeline Anderson."

  "The reporter for the Washington Press who covered the capital social scene back in the day." Simon could almost see Norton nodding his approval. "Good c
hoice. She knew everyone in town back then, knew what they were doing and who they were doing it with. It was said that if Addie Anderson didn't know about it, it hadn't really happened."

  "I thought she'd be helpful in setting the stage. The social stage, that is."

  "She will be, I'm sure. Now, I think she's living out in—"

  "Already found her, thanks. And I have calls in to Congressman Hayward and the former First Lady, as well as Sarah Decker, the former First Daughter."

  "Well then, it sounds as if you're off to a fine start."

  "I am, thank you."

  "If you need my help don't hesitate to call me."

  "I don't expect to." Recalling his manners, Simon added, "But appreciate the offer."

  "Well then, keep in touch."

  "Will do." Simon hung up the phone.

  He'd no sooner put the phone on the table when it rang again.

  "Mr. Keller? Sarah Decker returning your call."

  "Yes, of course. Mrs. Decker, thank you for calling back so promptly."

  "I understand that you're doing a book about my father."

  "Yes, I... Excuse me, how did you know that?"

  "My mother mentioned it. I believe she spoke with Philip Norton over the weekend—"

  "Oh?" Simon frowned, vaguely annoyed by this news.

  "Mother said that you'd probably be calling to set up an appointment to chat."

  "Yes. I was hoping to schedule some time to spend with you, at your convenience, of course."

  "I know that everyone in the family is excited about your book, so I certainly want to cooperate. Did you have any particular date in mind?"

  Simon heard what sounded like pages turning softly in the background.

  "The earliest date that you are available would be fine. Whatever works best for you."

  "In that case, how does next Tuesday look?"

  "Next Tuesday is fine." Simon didn't have to check his appointment book. Even if he had scheduled something previously, he'd have broken it to meet with Sarah Decker.

  "Is one-thirty good?"

  "Perfect."

  "Great. You have our address?"

  "I do." He read it off to her from a slip of paper he'd tucked into his shirt pocket after he'd placed the call to her earlier in the day.