by Lyn Cote
Finally, the meeting with all the stupid questions from the local John Does ended. Delaying his departure, Trent finally managed to escort Leigh out to her Nova in the new fire-engine chartreuse. So far he’d not scored one point with the most gorgeous Democrat in the U.S. What was going on behind those beautiful but sad eyes? They told him that she was on the rebound, which could work to his favor if he could get on her good side. Easy. He was good at that. He’d just have to play this a little more subtly than he had been.
“Go to a late supper with me?” he offered, trying not to sound as if this meant anything like a date. Women on the rebound didn’t want to date.
“I’m driving to my grandmother’s house—” Oh, ho, little Red Riding Hood. “But surely you have to eat,” he said, trying to sound sympathetic. Heck, at forty, he was a little young for the role, but he’d even attempt fatherly if that would do the trick.
Leigh looked at him. Sudden tears moistened her big cornflower-blue eyes. She blinked, trying to hide them from him.
“Why are you sad all the time?” Trent asked in the softest and most caring voice he could manage. “Don’t you think it might help to talk about it?”
In the empty parking lot, Leigh burst into tears. Trent gathered her into his arms, making sure that he kept the embrace comforting, not sensual. “Let it out. Let it all out. I can take it.” Dear Abby would be proud of him.
“I just lost my fiance,” she said, her tears subsiding. “I’m sorry. It’s just—”
“It’s hard, I know.” What jerk would leave this luscious armful behind? Well, one man’s stupidity could be this man’s luck. Over the past few weeks, this young woman had lingered in his mind, not just because of her beauty, but because she had something.She made him want to be near her for a long time, a very long time. Meeting her had made him finally realize that he needed someone who’d commit to a longer-term relationship. He was tired of one-night stands and casual affairs. And of women who were on the prowl just like him. What he wanted was right here in his arms—a beautiful woman who projected a delicious tempting innocence.
They’d shared a relaxing supper at a homey little cafe. That had been just the right setting for Leigh to begin to open up to him. He’d felt a flicker of sympathy when she’d revealed that she wasn’t suffering from a broken heart but from her fiance’s death. That was heavy, but it also would work for him. She didn’t know it, but she was looking to replace what she’d lost—a wedding night. And he was more than willing to supply—if not the wedding—the night, and much more. He wouldn’t be stingy with his time or his money. Leigh was luxury class all the way, and that’s how he’d treat her. But first he had to help her fall from grace and into his waiting arms.
Aware of her naïve idealism, he’d spent the evening convincing her that he was deeply concerned about America and very sympathetic to her grief. She wasn’t the kind who was impressed by influence, agreeable to his pragmatic enthusiasm for power and money. He’d keep that to himself. Feeling as if he’d made good progress, Trent walked her to her Nova once more.
“I’m sorry to be such poor company,” she murmured.
Trent put his arm around her in a comforting gesture, again calculatingly devoid of sensuality. “You? Poor company? Never. You’ve been through hell.”
She sighed with obvious fatigue.
“I don’t like you driving home alone at night,” he said. “Why don’t you stay at a hotel?” He stopped himself from adding—“with me?” Patience. Patience.
“Ivy Manor’s not far—just around twenty-five miles.” She unlocked the door of her Nova and then turned back to him. “Thanks. I enjoyed your company.”
“I’m glad.” Someday soon you’ll enjoy something much more exciting than just my company.He lifted her chin with his hand. “You’ll survive this, you know. You’re a strong woman.”
She blushed. “Thanks.”
He gave her a light, fatherly kiss on her cheek. And wondered how soon he’d be able to kiss her deeply with all the passion she ignited in him. “I’ll see you in three days then.”
She nodded and got in.
“Fasten that seat belt,” he ordered in a mock-severe tone. “And I’ll see you at the next town-hall meeting.”
She smiled and buckled up before starting the car and driving away. He waved until she was out of sight.
An image of her lying in his arms, her golden hair flowing over his skin, floated through his mind, and his breath caught in his throat. He would be the envy of every man when she was his. And it wouldn’t take long. He just had to lull her into trusting him, and then he’d overcome the strong scruples he sensed she still possessed—even though the sexual revolution had changed the social landscape. It was kind of cute that she still hadn’t had much experience with passion. And maybe that would bind her to him for that “long, long time.” He breathed in deeply. So much to look forward to. She would be his. He’d just chipped out the first chink in her armor.
November 7, 1972
Leigh didn’t know why she’d agreed to attend the McGovern election-night festivities in Baltimore. Victory did not seem to loom on the Democratic horizon. But she’d come because she’d gotten caught up in the campaign, the town-hall meetings, the knocking on doors to get the vote out, the writing letters to the editors of various newspapers, challenging the government to do better.
Her mood had lifted as she’d thrown herself into the campaign. After all, there were important things to fight for. LBJ’s War on Poverty had not been won. Viet Nam dragged on, killing men day by day, and radical groups were still planting bombs and robbing banks. The debates, the cam paigning, the being a part of something that mattered had lifted Leigh out of her grief for brief periods.
But tonight had lived up to the depressing election predictions. The hope for a happy outcome for the Democratic candidate had been in doubt from the start of the evening and had worsened minute by minute. All around her, McGovern supporters had been—for many exhausting hours—putting up a good front for the local TV station cameras. In fact, as state after state swung to Nixon, the gaiety took on a frantic quality of desperation.
It made her nervous. It brought back too many memories of the days just after her stepfather and Dane had died, when life had become darker and more impossible each day. Her nerves tight, Leigh found herself drifting toward the door. Then a familiar arm around her shoulders stopped her.
“Let’s abandon this sinking ship. I need a drink,” Trent murmured into her ear. “I hate wakes, especially when the corpse is still breathing.”
Leigh glanced up. Trent’s look of grim disappointment snared her sympathy. He’d tried so hard to make this election a success. And he probably hadn’t realized he was helping her—day by day—to recover from losing Dane. Now he looked like he needed a friend, and she owed him.
She took the hand he offered. “Yes,” she said, feeling suddenly overwhelmed and repelled by the disaster all around, “get me out of here.”
With her hand in his, he led her out of the banquet room and into the nearby hotel lounge. She slid into the comfortable leather of the corner booth. Masked by the low light, she relaxed, breathing easier. Beside her, Trent motioned toward the cocktail waitress. “Are you going to have your usual Coke with a twist of lime?” he asked Leigh.
The way he said it was somehow a dare. It was almost as if he’d said, “Have you grown up yet, or are you still a little girl?” And she didn’t feel like a little girl tonight. She felt ancient. She gave him a wry look. Maybe he was right. The slaughter of McGovern called for something stronger than soda. And she didn’t want to look so young to him. She hesitated.
“Let’s make it rum and Coke just for tonight,” he said smoothly, taking the decision from her. He turned to the waitress, ordering for them.
Her pulse sped up, but she didn’t stop him. After Mary Beth got lost in drugs, Leigh had shied away from every intoxicant. But tonight was different. Tonight, everything that Leigh had fought for ha
d gone down to bloody defeat. Would life ever make sense again?
The waitress left for the bar, and Trent faced her. “You and I need a little medication tonight. How could McGovern…” He shook his head and fell silent.
Trent looked so defeated, and she knew how he was feeling. I backed the losing side again.Just like she had when she’d quit college and went looking for Mary Beth. And what is the use of all this campaigning, caring anyway?Dane had called her Joan of Arc. Well, where did a discouraged crusader—make that two discouraged crusaders—go to resign?
This election had kept her going for months. Now it was over. McGovern had lost. No, not just merely lost, but gone down in flames to Nixon, who’d won one of the largest landslide victories in history. What would keep her going now?
The cocktail waitress returned with their drinks, and Leigh sipped her rum-laced Coke and tortured herself by picturing Dane—alive and strong—walking through the door of the lounge. Why had he died so young, so senselessly? She closed her eyes, sipping the cold, sweet Coke, willing away her sorrow, willing away the desolation that awaited her when she woke tomorrow morning with nothing to look forward to.
“We backed the losing side,” Trent said, sounding like a different man. He sounded crushed, completely beaten as if the defeat were his fault.
Sympathetically, Leigh touched his shoulder. “You were a great campaigner.”
He shook his head and took a sip of his drink. “I knew this would be a hard election to win. But…”
That even upbeat Trent was in danger of being depressed worried Leigh. Trent had kept her busy, kept her involved. She’d never seen Trent discouraged. “We did the best we could.” She squeezed his arm and tried to smile. “There always has to be a winner and a loser.”
Trent snorted and drained his martini. He waved to the waitress, and she appeared with refills for both of them. Leigh then realized that she’d already drained her first glass. She’d forgotten it contained rum, not just Coke. Trent put the fresh cold glass in her hand. Again, she didn’t want to make a scene. I’ll just have to drink this one slow and make it the last.
“I don’t know what’s going to happen to our country. Nixon has his strengths, but I’ve never trusted the man. The voters completely ignored the issue of the breakin at the Watergate Hotel. But I think Nixon was behind it, and has been busy breaking laws to cover it up.” Trent looked downward, speaking in a disgusted tone she’d never heard him use before. “Should a man capable of such low, underhanded behavior be elected president of a world superpower?”
Leigh moved a little closer to him on the seat. Trent had always been so strong. Now to hear his disillusionment and despair troubled her. She sipped her drink and tried to think of something comforting to say. He’d been so good to her.
Before she could say anything, a wave of people sporting McGovern buttons flowed into the lounge, filling every stool at the bar and every booth. Three other campaigners Leigh recognized by sight crowded up to their booth. “Do you have room for three more losers?” one of them asked with an attempt at dark humor.
“Take the booth.” Trent rose and drew Leigh with him, abandoning it. He led her out of the lounge. She wondered where Trent was taking her, but before she could form words, he gave her the answer.
“Let’s go where we can talk privately.” He drew her hand to his lips and kissed her fingertips.
She felt as if she were floating just above the carpet. She realized then that she had downed her second drink as fast as the first. Unaccustomed to alcohol, she was a little lightheaded and more than a little shocked at herself. But she didn’t stop herself as Trent led her into the elevator, where she dreamily watched the buttons for the floors light up one by one. Then she was in the hall, waiting for Trent to unlock the door to his hotel suite. “I should be going,” she murmured. She felt funny about going to his room. Her mother would have a fit if she knew. Well, Mom, this is 1972, not 1942.
“Don’t go yet.” Trent squeezed her hand. Just stay a bit longer with me. You’re the only one I want to be with right now.”
As he said the words, Leigh realized that she felt the same way. Somehow even tonight, in this dark mood, he gave her hope. “All right.” Inside the room, she sank down onto an amber sofa, feeling a bit unsteady on her feet.
Within minutes, Trent sat down beside her, handing her another Coke that he’d poured at the small wet bar.
“No, no,” she muttered.
“You don’t have to drink it. But rum and Coke isn’t that strong. It’s not like drinking martinis, you know.”
Leigh didn’t want to make a big deal about it, so she just held the drink. Again, this wasn’t the dark ages of the forties, but she still felt odd about being alone with a man in his hotel suite. “I should be going,” she said again.
Trent sat forward, his elbows on his knees. “You loved him very much, didn’t you?”
The question came out of nowhere, freezing her in place. She’d never really discussed Dane with Trent. She drank some of her Coke, trying to act nonchalant. And then she realized she could feel the rum loosening the rough cords of anguish that had bound her for months. Everything was relaxing in and around her. Less pain—it felt good. Was that so bad?
“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” Trent said as if he expected her to rebuff him.
She ached with loneliness and gratitude for his tact.
Trent folded her hand into his. “He was a fortunate man. You are a woman of quality, a woman worthy of notice. I hope he realized that.”
Leigh looked away, feeling loneliness and despair creeping close again. She took another sip of her drink and then hazarded a look at him.
Trent drew her hand to his mouth and kissed her fingertips again. “You’ve suffered.”
Leigh felt hot, embarrassing tears dropping down her cheeks. “I’m sorry to break down like this.”
He pressed the back of her hand against his cheek. “I just wish I could do something to make you feel better.”
His sympathy made the tears come faster. “I… feel like I’ll never… love again.”
He drew her into a comforting embrace. “That’s not true.”
Her mind was moving much slower than usual, but his words finally spread over and through her. She tingled with their effect. “Have you ever been in love like that?”
Trent met her gaze. “No.” Then he gave her a sad look. “I’d like to be. To be honest, I don’t know if I have what it takes.”
She felt the familiar pain of loss, but something new had been added. She wished she could help Trent know what it was like to be loved.
“Love has never been part of my life, Leigh. Until I met you, I didn’t care. But you’re so special, so wonderful. You’ve tempted me to hope.” He stopped, then went on in a different voice, “I wish I could soothe away your sorrow at least a little.”
As he said these words, Leigh found herself floating in a lovely cocoon. The anguish that had racked her for months had released its hold on her, and Trent’s touch warmed her, excited her. She suddenly realized that the man beside her wanted to help her, wanted to know her… The longing to let go, to let Trent comfort her, to move toward someone instead of just drifting in painful limbo swept over her. “And I wish you could know what it is to love and be loved.”
“So do I.” He folded her into his arms and kissed her.
Somewhere in the back of Leigh’s mind, a tardy warning rang and rang. But she was deliciously detached from it. She closed her eyes and hummed softly, blocking it out. Trent was holding her, kissing her. As his lips dipped lower down her throat, she sighed and leaned back, encouraging him. One last breath of caution whispered through her. Trent’s kisses became more insistent. How could she just get up and go? How could she do that to him? He needed her. She needed him. She knew she couldn’t face tomorrow alone. And for the first time in months, she felt good, alive. She wasn’t alone in the darkness anymore.
*
She’d spent the night in Trent’s suite.
With Trent.
Flashes of the night played in her mind. Then she felt as if Grandma Chloe were standing right beside her, looking hurt and very disappointed. Leigh buried her face in her hands. How did I let this happen? Why? I don’t approve of this when others do it.Then she recalled the three rum and Cokes she’d drank. Why did I do that? I don’t drink.
But she’d let herself get into a questionable situation and then she’d let down her guard—and the only explanation she could come up with was that she’d been weak and weighed down with her grief. Was that an adequate excuse? In her mind, she heard Sister Mary Margaret at St. Agnes saying, “There’s always a reason for why people do the sinful things they do. But that doesn’t mean that there is ever an excuse.”
Leigh massaged her temples. She didn’t really want to remember Sister Mary Margaret right now. It was bad enough, hoping that her grandmother would never find out about last night. She didn’t even try to deceive her conscience with the popular sop that these were the seventies, after all, and things were different between the sexes now. She would never again let herself fall into the sin she had last night. She wouldn’t rationalize her way out of this. And she’d have to make that clear to Trent. Or maybe he was feeling the same guilt as she this morning.
A phone conversation in the other room came to her in bits and pieces. Trent raised his voice as if winding up a con versation, “Yes, I won’t forget. The game’s at 6:30. I’ll be there.” She heard the phone receiver being put down.
Fearing that Trent would come back in the room, she sat up and pulled the sheet to her chin.
He appeared in the doorway, still wearing only pajama bottoms. She realized she was wearing his pajama top under the sheet and blushed furiously. In the cold light of morning, her situation was too humiliating.