by Nora Roberts
“Absolutely.”
“Even if you don’t like it.”
“I hate blanket promises, but okay.”
He lifted her down from the car. “We’ll talk about it.”
Chapter 13
CHARLTON P. HAYDEN HAD had a very successful trip north. In Detroit he’d drummed up solid support from the unions. Blue-collar workers were lined up behind him, drawn in by his America for Americans campaign. Fords and Chevys were decorated with HAYDEN’S AMERICA—SOLID, SECURE, SUCCESSFUL bumper stickers. He spoke in simple terms, everyman’s terms, in orations two speech writers collaborated on and he edited. His ride to the White House was more than a decade in the making. Hayden might have preferred a Mercedes, but he made certain his staff had rented a Lincoln.
His appearance at Tiger Stadium had been as solidly cheered as the two-hit shutout. His picture, in a fielder’s cap with his arm around the winning pitcher, had made the front page of the Free Press. The crowds in Michigan and Ohio had been vocal, his promises believed, his speeches applauded.
Already in the works was a trip to America’s heartland. Kansas, Nebraska, Iowa. He wanted the farmer behind him. As fate would have it, he could fall back on his great-grandfather who had tilled the land. That made him America’s son, the salt of the earth, despite the fact that he was the third generation of Haydens to graduate from Princeton.
When he won the election—Hayden never thought in terms of if’s—he would implement his plans to strengthen the backbone of the country. Hayden believed in America, so that his vigorous speeches and impassioned pleas rang with sincerity. Destinies—his own and his country’s—were innate beliefs, but Hayden knew both games and war had to be played to achieve them. He was a man with a single purpose: to rule, and rule well. Some would suffer, some would sacrifice, some would weep. Hayden was a firm believer in the needs of the many outweighing the needs of the few. Even when the few were his own family.
He loved his wife. The fact was he could never have fallen in love with anyone unsuitable. His ambition was too much a part of what made him. Claire suited him—her looks, her background, and her manner. She was a Merriville and, like the Vanderbilts and Kennedys, had grown up in the comfortable surroundings of inherited wealth and position sweated for by immigrant forefathers. Claire was a bright woman who understood that in their circle the planning of a menu could be as important as the passage of a bill.
She had married Hayden knowing that ninety percent of his energy would always be earmarked for his work. He was a vigorous, dedicated man and considered ten percent more than enough for his family. If anyone had accused him of neglecting them, he would have been more amused than annoyed.
He loved them. Naturally he expected top performances from the members of his family, but that was a matter of pride as well as ambition. It pleased him to see his wife dressed beautifully. It pleased him to see his son in the top ten percent of his class. Hayden wasn’t a man to give praise for what he expected. If Jerald’s grades had dipped, it would have been a different matter altogether. Hayden wanted the best for his son, and wanted the best out of him.
He was seeing that Jerald had the best education, and was proud of what his son seemed to be doing with it. Already Hayden was making plans for his son’s political career. Though he had no intention of passing on his power for a few decades, when he did, he would damn well pass it on to his own.
He expected Jerald to be ready and willing.
Jerald was well mannered, bright, sensible. If he spent too much time by himself, Hayden usually dismissed it as adolescent intensity. The boy was almost emotionally attached to his computer. Girls hadn’t entered the picture, and Hayden could only be relieved. Studies and ambition always took second place to females with an impressionable young man. Of course, the boy wasn’t particularly good-looking. A late bloomer, Hayden had often told himself. Jerald had always been a plain, thin boy who tended to slouch if he wasn’t reminded to hold himself straight. He was on the dean’s list consistently, always polite and attentive at dinner parties, and at eighteen had a firm handle on politics and the party line.
He rarely gave his father a moment’s worry.
Until lately.
“The boy’s sulking, Claire.”
“Now, Charlton.” Claire held up her pearl drops and her diamond studs to see which best suited her evening dress. “He has to be allowed his little moods.”
“What about this business about having a headache and not attending tonight’s dinner?” Charlton fussed with his monogrammed cuffs. The laundry had overstarched again. He’d have to speak with his secretary.
While his gaze was fixed elsewhere, Claire shot her husband a quick, worried look. “I think he’s been studying too hard. He does it to please you.” She decided on the pearls. “You know how much he looks up to you.”
“He’s a bright boy.” Hayden relented a bit as he checked his jacket for creases. “No need for him to make himself sick.”
“It’s just a headache,” she murmured. Tonight’s dinner was important. They all were, with the election coming up. Whatever worries she had about their son, she didn’t want to bring them up tonight. Her husband was a good man, an honest man, but he had a low tolerance for weaknesses. “Don’t push him just now, Charlton. I think he’s going through some kind of phase.”
“You’re thinking about those scratches on his face.” Satisfied with his jacket, Hayden checked the shine on his shoes. Image. Image was so important. “Do you believe he ran his bike into some rosebushes?”
“Why shouldn’t I?” She fumbled over the clasp of her necklace. It was ridiculous, but her fingers were damp. “Jerald doesn’t lie.”
“Never known him to be awkward either. Claire, to tell you the truth, he hasn’t been himself since we got back from up north. He seems nervous, edgy.”
“He’s concerned over the election, that’s all. He wants you to win, Charlton. To Jerald, you already are the president. Do this for me, darling. I’m all thumbs tonight.”
Obliging, Hayden crossed over to hook the chain. “Nervous?”
“I can’t deny I’ll be glad when the election’s over. I know how much pressure you’re under, all of us are under. Charlton …” She reached over her shoulder to take his hand. It had to be said. Perhaps it would be best to say it now and gauge her husband’s reaction. “Do you think, well, have you ever considered, that Jerald might be—experimenting?”
“With what?”
“Drugs?”
It wasn’t often he was thrown a curve that rocked him. For ten seconds, Hayden could only stare. “That’s absurd. Why, Jerald was one of the first to join the antidrug campaign at his school. He even wrote a paper on the dangers and the long-term effects.”
“I know, I know. I’m being ridiculous.” But she couldn’t quite let it go. “It’s just that he’s seemed so erratic lately, particularly in the last few weeks. He’s either closed up in his room or spending the evening at the library. Charlton, the boy doesn’t have any friends. No one ever calls here for him. He never has anyone come over. Just last week he snapped at Janet for putting his laundry away.”
“You know how he feels about his privacy. We’ve always respected that.”
“I wonder if we’ve respected it too much.”
“Would you like me to talk to him?”
“No.” Shutting her eyes, she shook her head. “I’m being silly. It’s the pressure, that’s all. You know how closed up Jerald becomes when you lecture.”
“For Christ’s sake, Claire, I’m not a monster.”
“No.” She took his hands then and squeezed. “Just the opposite, dear. Sometimes it’s hard for the rest of us to be as strong, or as good as you. Let’s leave him be for a while. Things will be better when he graduates.”
JERALD WAITED UNTIL HE heard them leave. He’d been half-afraid his father would come in and insist that he join them for the evening. Some stupid rubber-chicken-and-asparagus dinner. Everyone would talk politic
s and tout their favored causes while watching out of the corners of their eyes for which coattail to grab on to.
Most would be grasping on to his father’s. People were brownnosing him already. It made Jerald sick. Most of them were just out for what they could get. Like the reporters Jerald had spotted outside the house. Looking to dig up dirt on Charlton P. Hayden. They wouldn’t find any because his father was perfect. His father was the best. And when he was elected in November, the shit would hit the fan. His father didn’t need anyone. He’d kick out all those pussies in their soft jobs and run the government the correct way. And Jerald would be right there beside him, soaking up the power. Laughing. Busting his gut laughing at all the idiots.
The women would come begging, pleading for the son of the president of the United States to pay attention to them. Mary Beth would be sorry, so sorry she’d rejected him. Almost lovingly, he ran his fingers over the scratches on his face. She’d fall on her knees and beg him to forgive her. But he wouldn’t forgive. True power didn’t forgive. It punished. He’d punish Mary Beth and all the other sluts who’d made promises they didn’t intend to keep.
And no one could touch him because he’d gone beyond their pitiful scope of understanding. He could still feel pain. Even now the gashes in his leg throbbed. Soon there wouldn’t even be that. He knew the secret, and the secret was all in the mind. He’d been born for greatness. Just as his father had always told him. That’s why none of the small-minded wimps who went to school with him ever came close to being his friends. The truly great, the truly powerful were never understood. But they were admired. They were revered. The time would come when he had the world in his two palms, like his father. He’d have the power to reshape it. Or to crush it.
He gave a quick giggle, then dug into his stash. Jerald never smoked at home. He knew the sweet smell of pot was easily detected and would be reported to his parents. When he had a yen for a joint, he took it outside. He eschewed cigarettes. Both of his parents were very active in nonsmokers’ rights. Any trace of smoke, tobacco or otherwise, would besmirch the purity of Hayden air. Jerald giggled again as he pulled out a prime joint laced with flake. PCP. Angel dust. He smiled as he ran his fingers down it. A few tokes of this and you could feel like an angel. Or Satan himself.
His parents would be gone for hours. The servants were all tucked away in their wing of the house. He needed a lift. No, not needed, he corrected. Needs were for ordinary people. He wanted a lift. He wanted to fly sky-high while he listened for the next one. Because the next one was going to suffer. Jerald took out his father’s service revolver, the one Captain Charlton P. Hayden had shot so many geeks with in good old Nam. His father had won medals for shooting strangers. There was something glorious about that.
Jerald didn’t want any medals, he just wanted a kick. The big kick. The teenager in him opened the window before he lit the joint. The madman booted up the computer to search.
GRACE SPENT HER FIRST night on call torn between amusement and amazement. She was glad that she could still be surprised. Working in the arts and living in New York didn’t mean she’d seen and heard everything. Not by a long shot. She took calls from whiners, from dreamers, from the bizarre and the mundane. For a woman who considered herself sophisticated and sexually savvy, she found herself stumbling more than once. One man calling from rural West Virginia recognized her as a novice.
“Don’t worry, honey,” he’d told her. “I’ll talk you through it.”
She worked three hours, a light load, and had to fight back giggles, simple shock, and the lingering discomfort that Ed was waiting downstairs.
At eleven, she took her last call. Tucking away her notes—you never knew what you could use—she walked downstairs. She spotted Ed first, then his partner.
“Hello, Ben. I didn’t know you were here.”
“You get the whole team.” As he checked his watch he noted they were well past the latest time their man had struck. Still, he’d give it another half hour. “So how’d it go?”
Grace settled on the arm of a chair. She shot Ed a look, then shrugged. “It’s different. You ever get turned on listening to a woman sneeze? Never mind.”
As she spoke, Ed watched her. He’d have sworn she looked embarrassed. “Anyone make you uneasy, suspicious?”
“Uh-uh. For the most part you’ve got guys who are looking for a little companionship, some sympathy, and I guess in an odd sense a way to be faithful to their wives. Talking on the phone’s a lot safer, and less drastic, than paying for a prostitute.” But it wasn’t anything to get on a soapbox about either, she reminded herself. “You’re getting it all on tape anyway, right?”
“That’s right.” Ed lifted a brow. “Is that what’s bothering you?”
“Maybe.” She fiddled with the hem of her sleeve. “It feels odd knowing the boys at the station are going to be playing back what I said.” Always resilient, she shook it off. “I can’t believe what I said myself. I had this one guy who does bonsai trees, you know those little Japanese things? He spent most of the call telling me how much he loves them.”
“Takes all kinds.” Ben passed her a cigarette. “Did any of them ask to meet you?”
“I got some hints, nothing hard-line. Anyway, in my orientation session this afternoon I got some tips on how to handle that, and a lot of other things.” She was relaxed again, even amused. “I spent the afternoon with Jezebel. She’s been doing this for five years. After listening to her take calls for a few hours, I got the drift. Then there’s this.” She lifted a blue binder from the coffee table. “My training manual.”
“No shit?” Delighted, Ben took it from her.
“It lists sexual penchants, the usual and a few I’ve never heard of.”
“Me either,” Ben murmured as he flipped a page.
“It also gives you different ways to say the same things. Like a thesaurus.” She blew out smoke, then chuckled. “Do you know how many ways there are to say …” She trailed off when she looked at Ed. It only took her a moment to decide he wouldn’t care for a rundown. “Well, it’s handy. Let me tell you, it’s a lot easier to have sex than to talk about it. Anybody want some stale chocolate-chip cookies?”
Ed shook his head, but all she got from Ben was a grunt as he leafed through the manual. “You’ll grow hair on your palms,” Ed said mildly when Grace left the room.
“Could be worth it.” With a grin, Ben glanced up. “You wouldn’t believe some of this. How come we’re not working Vice?”
“Your wife’s a shrink,” Ed reminded him. “Nothing you could come up with in there’s going to surprise her.”
“Yeah. You’re right.” Ben set the manual aside. “Sounds to me like Grace handled herself all right.”
“Looks like.”
“Give her a break, Ed. She needs to do this. And she might just help bust things open.”
“When they bust, they could fall all over her.”
“We’re here to see that doesn’t happen.” He paused a moment. He knew what it was to want to kick something, but not to have anything around big enough. “Do you remember how I felt when Tess was involved last winter?”
“I remember.”
“I’m on your side, buddy. I always am.”
Ed stopped pacing to just look at the room. It was funny how quickly it had become Grace’s. Kathleen was gone; perhaps Grace didn’t realize it yet, but she’d nudged her sister out with opened magazines and discarded shoes. There were wilting flowers in an old jar and dust on the furniture. In days, without even intending to, she’d made a home.
“I want her to marry me.”
Ben stared at his partner a minute, then slowly sat back. “I’ll be damned. Looks like Doc hit the bull’s-eye again. Did you ask her?”
“Yeah, I asked her.”
“And?”
“She needs some time.”
Ben only nodded. He understood perfectly. She needed time. Ed didn’t. “Want some advice?”
“Why not?”
“Don’t let her think too long. She might find out what an asshole you are.” When Ed grinned, Ben rose and reached for his jacket. “Wouldn’t hurt to look over that training manual either. Page six looks like a winner.”
“You leaving?” Grace walked back in with a tray of cookies and three beers.
“Jackson should be able to handle the night shift.” Ben picked up a cookie and bit in. “These are terrible.”
“I know.” She laughed when he picked up another. “Got time for a beer?”
“I’ll take it with me.” Ben slipped the bottle into his pocket. “You did good, sugar.” Because she looked like she could use it, Ben leaned over the tray to kiss her. “See you.”
“Thanks.” Grace waited until she heard the front door shut before she set down the tray. “He’s quite a guy.”
“The best.”
And as long as he’d been there, they hadn’t had to talk too directly to each other. Taking the end of the sofa, Grace began to nibble on a cookie. “I guess you’ve known him a long time.”
“Long enough. Ben’s got the best instincts in the department.”
“Yours don’t seem too shabby.”
Ed watched her as he picked up his beer. “Mine tell me to shove you on the shuttle back to New York.”
Grace lifted a brow. Apparently they were finished circling each other. “Are you still upset with me?”
“Worried about you.”
“I don’t want you to be.” Then she smiled and held out a hand. “Yes, I do.” When his fingers linked with hers, she brought them to her lips. “I have a feeling you’re the best thing that ever happened to me. I’m sorry I can’t make things easier.”
“You screwed up my plans, Grace.”
There was a half smile on her face as she tilted her head. “I did?”
“Come here.”
Obliging, she wriggled along the sofa until she was cuddled against him. “When I bought the place next door, I had it all worked out. I was going to fix it up, just right, just the way I’d always imagined a house should be. When it was done, I was going to find the right woman. I didn’t know what she’d look like, but that wasn’t so important. She’d be sweet and patient and want me to take care of her. She’d never have to work the way my mother did. She’d stay home and take care of the house, the garden, the kids. She’d like to cook, and iron my shirts.”