Kerry’s enemies would leave nothing to chance, he knew. And they would use any weapon they uncovered.
He had not picked this battle; it was the last he would have chosen—and the worst, Clayton insisted—on which to stake his presidency. That had been the focus of today’s tense and sometimes testy meetings: Kerry as President. Yet now, alone, he thought of those other people about whom, except for Lara, he had spoken of as chess pieces: Caroline Masters, who as a judge had chosen to face an issue which might shatter her ambitions. Her daughter, whose life as a result might be cruelly altered. Chad Palmer, who out of honor and self-interest had conspired to prevent this, and now risked enraging those set on besting Kerry. And Lara, whom Kerry feared losing more than he feared defeat.
But there were others, as well. Mary Ann Tierney, whom Caroline Masters had saved—at least for a time—from what Kerry believed was a grievous wrong. The nameless girls, all too real to Kerry, who were lost, abused, mistreated. He had been marked from childhood by the shock of seeing his mother’s bloody and broken nose, hearing her cries from the bedroom; as terrible as that had been for him, Kerry knew that it was essential to the man he had become. For he could never be like Macdonald Gage, who believed that his own good fortune was a reflection of virtue, which others could emulate if they wished.
Nor could Caroline Masters.
She had proven that—in her rulings in favor of the brutalized prisoner, and now with Mary Ann Tierney. The Supreme Court Kerry meant to leave behind would know that law without compassion was a shortcut to injustice. For this, he could not have chosen better than Caroline; if he chose to fight, that would be why.
Kerry knew himself; he would not be President without that. He was as capable of ruthlessness and unsentimentality as Gage. But Kerry needed a larger cause than power; the belief that he was bettering the future of those who relied on him, and of a country he deeply loved, whose ideals had helped raise Kerry himself, the son of immigrants, to become its leader. Armed with that, he acknowledged with withering honesty, there might be little he would not do to make Caroline Masters the next Chief Justice.
Before him, candles flickered around the monument, the electronic image of a reality less than a mile away. If he went to the window, Kerry could almost see it. Instead he watched the screen, and wondered what his course would be.
By tomorrow morning, he would know, and so would the country.
As Kerry reflected, the bathroom door opened.
The shadow of a woman crossed the room, pausing by the screen, her nude body illuminated by its light. She registered the candlelit images, then turned to him.
“On?” she asked lightly. “Or off?”
In the darkness, Kerry smiled. “Off.”
Lara walked to the bed, pulling down the cool sheet, sliding close to him so that her nipples grazed his chest and the slim line of her body touched his.
Kerry closed his eyes. Until the night they had become lovers, so surprising and yet, it now seemed, so inevitable, he had forgotten that it was possible to love someone so much that it frightened him. This was different from loving a child, surely, but the feelings must be akin—to place this much at risk, to lose control, so that the life of another was essential to your own. In childhood, Kerry had learned the pain of loving; it had hurt to love his mother yet be unable to protect her. But it was that vulnerability, the melding of his emotions with those of someone else, which had made him who he was, so different from his cool and self-protective brother. And it was Lara who had taught him that he, not Jamie, was—after all— the fortunate one.
Softly, she kissed his neck, the wisp of her breath warm on his skin. “What are you going to do?” she asked.
“Right now? Just be with you.”
Her laugh was knowing. “Unless Chad calls.”
“Timing,” he answered, “is everything.”
With his free arm, he swept aside the covers, leaving them exposed.
Gently, he kissed her and then, lips parted, again. His mouth, sliding to her throat, began a leisurely progress down her neck, her nipples, her stomach …
“I’m sorry, Chad,” he heard her whisper. “He’s busy.”
Afterward they lay in the dark, warm and damp, Lara’s body flung carelessly across his. They had not spoken in some minutes.
“What will you do?” Lara asked.
“I don’t know yet.” He gazed at the ceiling, pensive. “A lot depends on Chad.”
For a time, Lara was quiet. “And on me?” she finally asked.
It was this conversation which, though necessary, Kerry dreaded. That her secret could destroy his public career stirred in Lara both worry and resentment, a volatile mix which—in the crucible of his presidency—Kerry feared could put an end to them. Silent, he pondered the complexity of love, in which selflessness was inseparable from selfishness. He feared for Lara, and feared losing her.
“The last time we discussed this,” he told her, “we were walking toward the Lincoln Memorial. As I recall, it didn’t go very well.”
“What you mean,” she answered with a trace of humor, “is that I acted like a bitch.”
“That’s not how I remember it. I do remember you saying to leave all that behind us—for good. And, about Masters, to do what I damn well pleased.”
Her tone retained its irony. “And that wasn’t clear enough?”
Still gazing upward, Kerry expelled a breath. “Since then, Caroline’s changed the equation. Now she rises or falls on abortion …”
“So tonight you have a vision. I’m on the Today Show, discussing my Vera Wang bridal gown. Jealous of my youth and beauty, Katie Couric asks if I aborted the President’s child when he was a married senator and I was covering him for the Times. And the best I can say—at least truthfully—is, ‘Kerry didn’t want me to.’”
There was no avoiding this. “If not Katie,” Kerry answered, “someone. They got damned close to it during the campaign. And Gage and the Christian Commitment play to win.”
“A triple play, actually. They get Masters, you, and the ‘liberal media.’ Through me.”
“Yes,” Kerry said with reluctance. “Something like that.”
“Short of that disaster,” Lara continued, “you’ll have pro-lifers holding rallies and news conferences, crawling all over talk radio, and elbowing each other to get on Rush Limbaugh, Charlie Rose, Ted Koppel, and every other interview show in America. There’ll be mass mailings of anti-Masters propaganda, a tidal wave of protest on the Internet, and a statement by all the bishops, archbishops, and cardinals of our church, denouncing the Tierney decision and, implicitly, you for being a rotten Catholic. And the next ads on ‘partial birth’ will be a lot more gory. Not to mention that Gage may find out that Caroline has a daughter.” She paused, speaking more quietly. “Of course, Clayton’s already told you that. And you—knowing you as I do—told him you’re willing to live with it. All that’s slowing you down is Chad. And me.”
The summary was so trenchant that Kerry emitted a mirthless laugh. “So,” Lara finished, “I guess you want my opinion. Whether or not I want to give it.”
Kerry was silent; there was no need to answer.
“The first time we talked about Caroline Masters,” Lara told him, “I said she struck me as a supercilious Wasp—not worth the trouble. In fact, I accused you of being drawn to her because she’d had her baby.
“Of course I hadn’t met her yet, but why let that stop me. And, of course, I was being a complete bitch.” To Kerry’s surprise, she kissed him. “So now I’m apologizing.”
“Why?”
“Because Caroline really is that good. And because she stuck her neck out for a teenage girl, whatever the risk to her own daughter. And to her.
“How am I supposed to feel, Kerry, if you drop her because of me? And what will that do to us?” She rested her forehead against his. “I love you, more than I can say. But I can’t live like I’m being blackmailed. So if you decide you can’t stand by her, mak
e sure it’s about the risk to you. Not me.”
Curling his fingers, Kerry grazed her cheek. “And us?”
“I know I’ve been worried about becoming First Lady, perhaps too much. So there’s something I said last year, which I need to tell you this last time.” Pausing, Lara pressed his hand to her face. “If the worst happens, I can hold my head up—if you can. It was my choice, after all.”
There was nothing else for Kerry to say. Or do, except to hold her.
“You should call Chad again,” she said at last. “It’s getting late.”
FIVE
LYING NEXT to Allie, Chad Palmer ignored the telephone. “Whoever it is,” he told Allie, “I don’t want to hear from them. Unless it’s Kerry, telling me he’s pushed her off a bridge.”
Allie’s bedside lamp was on; neither could sleep. “It’s really that bad.”
Chad nodded. “Unless Kerry backs off. Gage wants me to reopen the hearings. Turn them into a morality play on partial birth abortion, with Masters in the role of baby-killer.”
Propped on her side, Allie regarded him with green-flecked eyes which expressed the worry of a wife and mother confronted with forces she could not control. “Will there be more hearings?” she asked.
“Not if I can help it. They’d be a nightmare—it was risky enough the last time, keeping the zealots who wanted to crawl through her life from seeing our own files.” Chad’s tone became sardonic. “At least that secret involved sex with a man. Harshman’s latest idea is that Masters and Sarah Dash are lovers, and her ruling in favor of Mary Ann Tierney was actually a crime of passion. Imagine that interrogation on national TV.”
Allie’s lips compressed in worry and distaste. “But you’re the chairman. Can’t you stop him? Or at least stop him from investigating Masters?”
“Not with Gage egging him on. I told Vic Coletti that the President ought to withdraw her. Not simply to avoid defeat, but also humiliation for both him and her.”
“Does Vic agree?”
“I hope so. He certainly sees why I don’t want more hearings, and not just because he knows I’ve been covering for her. Once I reopen them, we’d have to send her back to the full Senate with a positive or negative recommendation, or no recommendation at all. Unless I try to kill the nomination in committee without ever bringing it to the floor—which may be what Gage ends up wanting me to do.” Chad’s voice hardened. “That way her blood’s on my hands, not his.
“The pro-choice groups understand that. So they want me to stand in his way. All day they were like a recorded message: Gage may be a right-wing lackey, but I’m not, so I should let him be ‘anti-woman’ by himself. Some Republican pro-choice women even hinted they support me for President— as if me becoming their poster boy isn’t exactly what Gage wants.”
“And the pro-lifers?”
There was no point, with Allie, in telling less than the truth. “Were worse,” Chad acknowledged. “They want to know why I supported an antifamily judicial activist, and want me to know I’ll never be President if she gets on the Court. In case I missed that, Barry Saunders sent black lilies. The only question is whose ‘death’ he has in mind—Mary Ann Tierney’s baby’s, or mine.”
Allie took his hand. “These people have always made my skin crawl, Chad. But now they really scare me.”
Chad gazed at their hands, locked together, and felt the complexity of their bond, the fear that neither spoke aloud. “With good reason,” he said quietly. “They’ll use anything they dig up, on anyone who’s in their way. This is one they can’t afford to lose.
“The media knows it, too. Bob Novak inquired if it’s true I’m stiffing Gage, and wimping out on the right to life—cued by Mac himself, no doubt. Then Tony Lewis called to ask if I’m preparing to confront the Commitment head on. They’re looking for me to drive the story.”
Chad felt her hand squeeze tighter. “Those guys I can deal with,” he told her. “It’s the sleazemongers who could hurt us.”
Involuntarily, it seemed to Chad, Allie glanced at Kyle’s picture. “Do your friends see any way out of this?”
“They’re only focused on the politics, of course. Tom Ballinger says the Christian Right is losing ground, and that anyhow there’s nothing I can do to please them. But Kate Jarman thinks there’s no way I win the nomination without helping the Commitment get Masters.” Chad’s tone became mordant. “Kate asked a pungent question: What happens to me if the Tierney girl has an abortion, and her fetus turns out to have a cerebral cortex?”
For an instant Allie appeared stunned. “They’d find that out?”
“The Commitment would surely try, so they could give it to the press. Unless I help take Masters down, that would ruin me.” His voice softened. “I can see the spot they’d run against me in the primaries, showing the Gerber baby with an X across his face.”
Though Allie was quite still, Chad could see the tension in her body. Torn between hope and doubt, she said, “Kerry wouldn’t risk that, either.”
Chad shook his head. “Don’t be too sure. Suppose the fetus turns out to be a mess. Then we’ll have gone after Masters for protecting a fifteen-year-old girl, and Kerry will go after us without a trace of mercy.
“I know him—he’s already thought about that. It may not look good for Masters now, but Kerry’s a nervy bastard. No one in American politics can raise the furies like he can—pro or con. And he doesn’t know what that might mean to us.”
Fearful, Allie asked, “How can you avoid that?”
“The best way is to oppose her, then somehow persuade Gage to put her to an immediate vote on the Senate floor, rather than send the nomination back to my committee. That might put an end to this before anyone else gets hurt.” Chad’s voice became clipped. “Maybe Mac will see the virtue of pursuing a summary execution. If he strings this out too long he may get a baby without a brain, instead of Matthew Brown.”
Allie glanced sharply at him. “I know,” Chad reassured her in a milder tone. “We both hope for this girl’s sake that her son is hopeless, so this isn’t even worse for her. But whatever he turns out to be, it won’t be Mary Ann’s private tragedy. It’ll be a political land mine, throwing shrapnel everywhere. All I can do is try to keep us out of the way.”
Allie’s face softened. “I’m sorry, Chad.”
Her husband mustered a smile. “At least for a politician, you mean.”
“At least.” Gently, Allie touched his face. “You knew someday it might haunt you, and still you put our daughter first.”
The moment was burned into Chad’s memory: the naked boy stumbling across the darkened lawn; turning to his daughter, who was naked as well, and shivering with fear and anger. He could smell the wine on her breath.
“You fuck.” Kyle’s voice was slurred. “I love him. Him, not you.”
Like a burst of light, the horror of what was happening cut through Chad’s fury. “Kyle,” he said in a tightened voice, “you’re drunk. Get dressed.”
There was a sound behind him. From the shadows of their living room, Kyle gaped at the front door.
Turning, Chad saw his wife. She stared at them, trying to comprehend.
“That weasel Eric,” Chad managed to say. “I found them on the rug …”
“You humiliated me,” Kyle screamed. “You shit …”
“Shut up.” Chad turned on her, anger spinning out of control. “I find you fucking him in our living room like some slut in an alley, drunk out of your mind. You’ve humiliated us— and yourself. That boy is scum …”
In hysteria, Kyle whirled, grabbing a vase off the coffee table. As she jerked her arm back to throw, Allie stepped between them.
“Stop it,” she demanded. “Both of you.”
“Eric loves me,” Kyle burst out. “He’s the only one who does.”
“He’d ‘love’ anything,” her father snapped, “that spread its legs for him. And you’re pathetic enough to do it.”
Allie turned on him. “Stop, Chad.” Her
voice was choked, but still controlled. “I’m telling you to stop.”
Chad could see the desperation in Allie’s eyes, and a mother’s instinctive resolve—somehow she would salvage this, if only she could stop them now. Chad’s shoulders sagged.
Seeing this, Allie turned to Kyle. Softly, she said, “Go upstairs, and get dressed. I’ll be up to talk to you.”
Irresolute, Kyle stared at her parents, torn between shame and fury. “Go ahead,” Allie told her.
Slowly, the girl turned and started up the staircase, gripping the banister for balance. After a few steps, she turned to her father. “You ruined it,” she said.
Allie gripped Chad’s arm. The girl climbed the stairs.
Silent, Allie flicked on a light, staring in disbelief at Eric’s clothes on the living room rug. “You pushed him out the door,” she said in wonder. “Naked …”
“Somehow,” Chad retorted, “I don’t think his parents will be calling to complain.”
“What about Kyle …”
“What about her?” At once Chad felt the raw misery Kyle had brought them—the lying, the drugs and self-absorption, and felt the visceral wish that she had never been born. “Look at what she’s done, what she’s doing to us. She’s become this sinkhole, dragging both of us down with her.”
Allie gripped his shoulder. “Don’t,” she spat. “Don’t say anything more.” After a moment, voice low again, Allie continued, “She’s our daughter. She’s our daughter, and we’ll have to find a way.”
Looking at his wife, her face haggard with emotion, Chad felt a terrible weariness. “How?” he asked. “A new psychiatrist? Or just this endless, helpless, hopeless patience, where we’re social workers, not parents, and she’s responsible for nothing.”
“I don’t know.” Allie’s tone had a repressed shrillness. “I don’t know. All I know is that I’m gone for three hours, and I come home to find you here, and more damage than Kyle could do alone.” Pausing, Allie tried to control her voice. “Why are you here, Chad? I thought you were in Washington.”
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