by Nora Roberts
Ben sat on the arm of the couch and pulled out a cigarette. The eighteenth of the day. Damn Ed for getting him into the habit of counting. “You know one thing I’ve always admired about you—besides your arm-wrestling skills, that is—you’re a hell of a judge of character, Ed. You usually put your finger on a person after ten minutes. So I figure you already know Grace isn’t going to budge.”
“Maybe she hasn’t been shoved hard enough.” Ed pushed his big hands into his pockets.
“A few months ago I gave serious thought to slipping the cuffs on Tess and shipping her off. Anywhere, as long as it was away from here.” Ben studied the end of his cigarette. “Looking back, I can see a bit clearer. It wouldn’t have worked. What made her the person she is made her determined to do what she was doing. It scared the shit out of me, and I took a lot of it out on her.”
“Maybe if you’d pushed harder, you wouldn’t have almost lost her.” Ed spit it out, then immediately detested himself. “Out of line. I’m sorry.”
If it had been anyone else, Ben would have released his temper in whatever way seemed the handiest. Because it was Ed, he bit it back. “It’s nothing I haven’t asked myself a few hundred times. I don’t forget what it felt like when I knew he had her. I’ll never forget it.” After crushing out his cigarette, he rose to pace again. “You want to keep Grace out of this part of your life completely, totally separated from it. You want her untouched and unsullied by all the shit you wade through day after day. The gang hits, the domestic explosions, the prossies and the pimps. Let me tell you, it ain’t never going to work because no matter what you do, you bring pieces of it home with you.”
“What you bring home doesn’t have to put her in firing range.”
“No, but she’s in this one.” Ben dragged a hand through his hair. “Christ, I know what you’re going through and I hate it. Not just for you, but for me, because it brings it right back to the bone. But the fact that keeps slapping us in the face is that she’s reeling him in. No matter how much you might wish it otherwise, she’s the one who’s going to nail him.”
“That’s what I’m counting on,” Grace said from the doorway. Both men turned toward her, but she looked only at Ed. “I’m sorry, by the time I realized this was a private conversation I’d already heard too much. I’m going for some coffee, but before I do, I’d like to add my two cents. I finish what I start. Always.”
Ben picked up his jacket as Grace walked away. “Look, I’ll go on out and wrap things up with Billings for the night.”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
“Catch you in the morning.” He headed for the door, then paused. “I’d tell you to ease up, but I won’t. If I had it to do over again, I’d do the same thing.”
Grace heard the door close. Minutes later, she listened to Ed’s footsteps come toward the kitchen. Immediately she began to fool with the coffeepot she’d simply been staring at.
“I don’t know why in the hell Kathy didn’t get a microwave. Every time I go to cook something I feel like I’m on Plymouth Rock. I’m thinking about frozen pizza. Are you hungry?”
“No.”
“Coffee probably tastes like mud by now.” She clanged cups in the cabinet. “There’s probably some juice or something in the fridge.”
“I’m fine. Why don’t you sit down and let me do that?”
“Stop it!” She spun around, shattering the cup in the sink. “Dammit! Just stop trying to tuck me in and pat me on the head. I’m not a child. I’ve been taking care of myself for years and doing a hell of a good job of it. I don’t want you to fix my coffee or anything else.”
“All right.” She wanted a fight. Fine. He was more than ready for one himself. “Just what the hell do you want?”
“I want you to back off, back way off. I want you to stop watching me as though I were going to fall on my face every time I take a step.”
“That’d be easy if you’d watch where you were going.”
“I know what I’m doing and I don’t need you or anyone else standing around waiting to catch me. I’m a capable, reasonably intelligent woman.”
“Maybe you are, when you’re not wearing blinders. You’re looking straight ahead, Grace, but you don’t know what the hell’s happening on either side or behind you. Nobody’s backing off, especially me, until this thing’s over.”
“Then stop making me feel guilty for doing the only thing I can do.”
“What do you want me to do, stop worrying about you, stop caring what happens to you? Do you think I can turn my feelings off and on like a faucet?”
“You’re a cop,” she shot back. “You’re supposed to be objective. You’re supposed to want him no matter what.”
“I want him.” She saw his expression cool again. It was that look which made her realize how far he’d go when pushed.
“Then you know what I’m doing could drop him in your lap. Think about it for a minute, Ed. Maybe some woman is alive tonight because he’s tuned in to me.”
He believed it, but the problem was he couldn’t get around her. “It’d be a hell of a lot easier for me if I didn’t love you.”
“Then love me enough to understand.”
He wanted to be reasonable. He wanted to pull back and be the logical, mild-tempered man he knew himself to be. But he wasn’t reasonable. If it wasn’t over soon he might never be that same man again. Tired suddenly, he pressed his fingers to his eyes. Six square blocks and a vague sketch. It had to be enough. He’d end it. He’d find a way to end it or by the following night he’d find a way to put Grace on a plane to New York. He dropped his hands.
“You’re boiling your coffee.”
Biting off an oath, she turned and switched off the flame. She grabbed for the handle, missed, and burned the tips of three fingers. “Don’t,” she said instantly when Ed stepped forward. “I burned myself, I’ll fix it.” Glaring at him, she stuck her hand under cold water from the tap. “See? I can take care of it. I don’t need you to kiss it and make it better.”
With a furious turn of her wrist, she shut off the tap, then stood staring at her dripping fingers. “I’m sorry. Oh Christ, I’m sorry. I hate myself when I’m ugly.”
“You going to kick at me if I ask you to sit down?”
Shaking her head, she walked to the table. “I guess I was on edge in the first place, then when I came down and heard you talking to Ben it set me off.” She picked up a dishcloth and began to twist it. “I don’t know how to handle your feelings and my own. As far as I know, no one’s ever felt about me the way you do.”
“Good.”
That brought a halfhearted laugh and made it easier for her to look at him. “It’s only fair to take that a step further and tell you I’ve never felt about anyone the way I feel about you.”
He waited a beat. “But?”
“If I were plotting this out, I could figure how to work it. The thing is, I want to tell you how I feel, but I’m afraid it’ll just make things harder for both of us.”
“Give it a shot.”
“I’m scared.” She shut her eyes but didn’t object when his hand reached for hers. “I’m so scared. When I was upstairs on that damn phone, I wanted to hang up and say screw it. But I couldn’t. I’m not even sure anymore that what I’m doing’s right. I don’t even have that, but I have to go on with it. It’s worse, a lot worse because you’re pulling me the other way and I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You want my support, you want me to tell you what you’re doing is the right thing. I don’t know if I can.”
“Then just don’t tell me it’s the wrong thing, because if you do enough times, I’ll believe you.”
He studied their joined hands. Hers were small, even delicate, the nails short and unpainted. There was a chunk of gold and diamonds on her pinky. “Have you ever been camping?”
“In a tent?” A little baffled, she shook her head. “No. I’ve never understood why people get off sleeping in the dirt.”
“I know a place
in West Virginia. There’s a river, lots of rock. Wildflowers. I’d like to take you there.”
She smiled. It was his way of offering peace. “In a tent?”
“Yeah.”
“I guess that leaves out room service.”
“I might bring a cup of tea to your sleeping bag.”
“Okay. Ed?” She turned her hand over in offering. “Why don’t you kiss my fingers and make them better?”
Chapter 15
TESS, HOW WONDERFUL YOU look.” Claire Hayden brushed her cheek over Tess’s, then settled into the corner table at the Mayflower. “I really appreciate you meeting me like this at the end of one of your busy days.”
“It’s always nice to see you, Claire.” Tess smiled though her feet were aching and she was already dreaming of a hot bath. “And you made it sound important.”
“I’m probably overreacting.” Claire adjusted the jacket of her shell-pink suit. “I’ll have a dry vermouth,” she told the waiter before glancing back at Tess. “Two?”
“No, I’ll just have a Perrier.” Tess watched Claire twist the thick band of her wedding ring around and around on her finger. “How is Charlton, Claire? It’s been months since I’ve seen either of you except on the evening news. This must be a very exciting time for all of you.”
“You know Charlton, he takes all of it in stride. For myself, I’m trying to gear up for the madness this summer. Smiles and speeches and smoldering podiums. The press already has the house under siege.” She moved her small shoulders as if to shrug the inconvenience away. “That’s all part of it. You know, Charlton always says the issues are more important than the candidate, but I wonder. If he slams a door, twenty reporters are ready to print that he threw a tantrum.”
“Public life is never easy. Being the wife of the party’s favored son can be a strain.”
“Oh, it’s not that. I’ve accepted that.” She paused while their drinks were served. She would only have one, no matter how much she was tempted to order a second. It wouldn’t do to have anyone report that the candidate’s wife sucked the bottle. “I can admit to you that there are times I wish we could bundle off to some little farm somewhere.” She sipped. “Of course, I’d hate that quickly enough. I love Washington. I love being a Washington wife. And I have no doubt I’ll love being First Lady.”
“If my grandfather’s on the mark, you’ll find out very soon.”
“Dear Jonathan.” Claire smiled again, but Tess saw the strain that still shadowed her eyes. “How is he?”
“As ever. He’ll be pleased when I tell him we got together.”
“I’m afraid this isn’t social, and it’s not something I want you to discuss with your grandfather. Or anyone.”
“All right, Claire. Why don’t you tell me what’s bothering you?”
“Tess, I’ve always respected your professional credentials, and I know I can rely on your discretion.”
“If you’re asking me to consider anything you say to me here as privileged, I understand.”
“Yes, I knew you would.” Claire paused again, to sip, then to simply run her finger down the stem of her glass. “As I said, it’s probably nothing. Charlton wouldn’t be pleased that I’m making anything out of it, but I can’t ignore it any longer.”
“Then Charlton doesn’t know you’re here.”
“No.” Claire looked up again. Her eyes were more than shadowed now, Tess saw. They were frantic. “I don’t want him to know, not yet. You have to understand the enormous pressure he’s under to be, well, ideal. In today’s climate no one wants imperfection in their leaders. Once a flaw is dug out, as the press is hell-bent to do, it’s maximized and twisted until it becomes a bigger issue than a man’s record. Tess, you know what smears on a candidate’s family life, his personal relationships, can do to his campaign.”
“But you didn’t ask me here to talk about Charlton’s campaign.”
“No.” Claire hesitated. Once it was said, it couldn’t be taken back. Twenty years of her life, and five more of her husband’s, could hang in the balance of this one decision. “It’s about Jerald. My son. I’m afraid he’s, well, I don’t think Jerald’s been himself lately.”
“In what way?”
“He’s always been a quiet boy, a loner. You probably don’t even remember him, though he’s often attended receptions and other functions with us.”
Tess had a recollection of a thin young boy who faded into corners. “I’m afraid I don’t remember him well.”
“People don’t.” Claire’s smile flared and faded. With her hands in her lap she began to pleat the tablecloth. “He’s very unobtrusive. Bright. Jerald’s a terribly bright young man. He’s in the top ten percent of his graduating class. He’s been on the dean’s list consistently through prep school. Several excellent private colleges have accepted him, though he’ll follow tradition and attend Princeton.” She began to talk quickly, too quickly, as though she were now on the down side of a roller coaster ride and frightened that she’d run out of breath. “I’m afraid he spends more time with his computer than with people. I can’t understand the things myself, but Jerald’s just a whiz with machines. I can honestly say I’ve never had a moment’s trouble from him. He’s never been rebellious or impolite. When friends would tell me how frustrated they were with their teenagers, I would just marvel that Jerald was always such a quiet, agreeable boy. Perhaps not overly affectionate, but good-natured.”
“The ideal son?” Tess murmured. She knew how deceptive “perfection” could be, how many jagged flaws it could conceal.
“Yes, yes, exactly. He simply worships Charlton. Almost too much, you understand. At times I would be a bit uneasy about it, but it’s so gratifying for a boy to look up to his father. In any case, we’ve never had to be concerned with the problems so many parents seem to face today. Drugs, promiscuity, defiance. Then lately—”
“Take your time, Claire.”
“Thank you.” After reaching for her glass, Claire sipped to moisten her dry throat. “In the last few months, Jerald’s been spending more and more time on his own. He’s locked himself in his room every night. I know how hard he studies and I’ve even tried to persuade him to slow down a bit. He looks so worn-out some mornings. His moods seem to swing. I know I’ve been tied up with the election and campaign, so I excused those swings. I’ve been a bit moody myself.”
“Have you talked with him?”
“I’ve tried. Perhaps not hard enough. I didn’t realize how difficult it could be to deal with. He came home from the library one night recently, and he was—Tess, he was a mess. His clothes were disheveled, his face was scratched up. It was obvious he’d been in a fight of some kind, but he would only say he’d fallen off his bike. I let it drop. I regret that now. I even let his father believe it, though I know Jerald had taken the car that night. I told myself he was entitled to his privacy and that, being a well-brought-up boy, he wouldn’t get in over his head. But there’s been something, something in his eyes lately.”
“Claire, do you suspect Jerald is experimenting with drugs?”
“I don’t know.” For a moment she allowed herself the luxury of covering her face with her hands. “I don’t know, but I do know we have to do something before it gets worse. Just yesterday Jerald was in a dreadful fight at school. He’s been suspended. Tess, they’re claiming he tried to kill the other boy … with his bare hands.” She looked down at her own. Her wedding ring glinted up at her. “He’s never been in trouble before.”
Tess felt chilled to the bone. She swallowed hard, then asked in a carefully managed, neutral tone, “What does Jerald say about the fight?”
“Nothing, not to me. I know he spoke with Charlton, but neither of them will discuss it. Charlton’s worried.” Her gaze darted to Tess’s, then shifted back to the tablecloth. “Charlton is trying to pretend he’s not, but I can see it. I know how damaging this could be if it leaks to the press and I’m terrified about what it might do to his campaign. He keeps insistin
g that all Jerald needs is a few days to rest his mind and calm down. I wish I could believe it.”
“Would you like me to talk to Jerald?”
“Yes.” Claire reached over to take her hand. “Very much. I don’t know what else to do. I’ve been a better wife, a better partner than a mother. Jerald seems to have slipped out of my hands. I’m really worried about him. He seems distant, and smug somehow, as though he knows something no one else does. I’m hoping that if he talks to someone outside the family, yet someone who’s still one of us, he’ll open up.”
“I’ll do what I can, Claire.”
“I know you will.”
RANDOLF LITHGOW HATED THE hospital. He hated Jerald Hayden for putting him there. It had been the humiliation more than the pain. How could he go back and face the other guys after he’d been beaten to a pulp by the class freak?
Little creep thought he was big shit on campus because his father was running for president. Lithgow hoped Charlton P. Hayden lost the election without pulling one state. He hoped he lost so bad he’d have to crawl out of Washington in the dead of night, dragging his crazy son with him.
Lithgow shifted in bed and wished, too, that it was time for visiting hours. He sipped through a straw and managed to swallow though his throat still burned like hell. He was going to make that pasty-faced nerd pay when he got back on his feet again.
Bored, restless, and feeling sorry for himself, Lithgow began to switch the television channels with his remote. He wasn’t in the mood for the six o’clock news. He could get all that crap in Current Events when he went back to school. He flipped again and landed on a rerun of a situation comedy. He knew the damn dialogue in that old horse by heart. Swearing, he switched channels. More news. Just when Lithgow was about to give up and read a book, they flashed the sketch of Mary Beth Morrison’s assailant on the screen.
He might have passed it by, but for the eyes. The eyes made him narrow his own. They were the same ones he’d seen as he was losing consciousness and Jerald’s hands had squeezed the air out of him. Concentrating, he struggled to fill in the details the artist had missed. Before he was sure, absolutely sure, the image was replaced by a reporter. Excited, no longer restless, Randolf switched to the next network. He might see it again.