The Trojan Sea

by Richard Herman

  “Let’s go sailing,” Stuart replied. “I checked the weather and tide. All good to go.”

  Jane never hesitated. She loved to sail at night and was out of the companionway and had the sail cover half off before Stuart could come on deck. They moved together like dancers in perfect unison getting Temptress ready, and in less than five minutes Stuart was casting off the bowline. He stepped aboard as Jane backed the big boat into the main channel. They idled out of the marina, and as soon as they were clear, Jane headed up into the wind and set the autopilot. Together they raised the mainsail. Jane was back at the helm and spun the wheel to fall off the wind. The sail snapped once, starting to draw, and Stuart unfurled the jib. Jane shut off the diesel, and Temptress was in her element, free of the land and all that went with it. Only the natural sounds of the boat working the wind and rushing water broke the silence as they ghosted down the channel in the growing darkness. Ahead of them the moon rose in the east and sent a ribbon of light across the water.

  Stuart breathed deeply and was at peace with himself and the world. “It’s cold,” he finally said. “I’ll get your jacket.”

  “Just a sweater,” she called as he disappeared into the cabin. He was back in a moment and took the wheel while she pulled the heavy sweater over her head. She relaxed into the wide seat beside the steering pedestal and savored the moment. The lights along the shore twinkled at them as the cares of the world disappeared into the darkness.

  “Almost enough to make you philosophical,” Stuart said in a low voice, matching her mood perfectly. Then, “The police called. The tests came back. All negative.”

  “Thank God,” she whispered reaching out for him. Their hands touched as she came to her feet. “I know you were worried about…” Her words trailed off. He nodded. Then she was in his arms, her face buried against his chest. “Oh, Mike, I was so worried.”

  “That’s all behind—” He cut his words off in midsentence. He had almost said “us.”

  “Behind us?” she asked, completing his thought.

  “Behind us,” he agreed. She lifted her head and kissed him. For a moment they sat there as the moon rose higher in the sky, not saying a word. “Let’s go sailing,” he finally said.

  “Sail hell,” she murmured. “I know a great place where we can anchor.”

  Dallas

  The wind was blowing when L.J. came out of church the first Sunday morning of November. She shook hands with the minister and, as expected, he was a shade more effusive with his richest, and now most famous, parishioner. “I understand you’ve been invited to the White House,” he said.

  “The president called Monday,” L.J. replied. “I was quite surprised.”

  The minister nodded. In Dallas it was common knowledge that L.J. Ellis and Madeline O’Keith Turner were on opposite sides of the political spectrum. “I know how you feel about her politics,” he said. “But she is a good woman.”

  Now it was L.J.’s turn to nod. She said good-bye and looked for the assistant minister’s young wife. She found her in the social hall serving coffee and cake to the Senior Gleaners, the most active group in the church. Under the guidance of the young woman they had accomplished near miracles in providing food and clothing to needy families in the Dallas–Fort Worth area. L.J. waited patiently until she was finished. “How’s everything?” L.J. asked.

  “There’s a young single mother who’s found a decent-paying job but needs a car to get to work. A good car will cost around eight thousand dollars. I know it sounds like a lot, but with reliable transportation she can make it on her own.”

  “Anything else?”

  “There’s a teenage boy, he’s brilliant but has a terrible family life. If we could get him into a prep school and into the proper environment…well, who knows? It’d be taking a chance.” She paused for a moment. “A very big chance.”

  “Is he worth it?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Call me with the details.”

  The young woman beamed. “You know, you give more than the rest of the congregation combined.”

  “It’s only money.”

  “But you should get credit. They should know what you’re doing.” L.J. shook her head. “It must remain anonymous. That’s the one condition I insist on.”

  “God will bless you.”

  I doubt it, L.J. told herself. “For some reason,” she admitted, “doing it this way makes me feel good. I don’t try to understand why.” She walked hurriedly to her car, hating the wind, and drove to her office, eager to work. As usual, the lights and heat were on, and someone had made coffee in anticipation of her arrival. Lloyd, she thought. Marsten cared for her like a father and had the uncanny ability to be there when she needed him. But for the most part his innate British reserve was always in place, seldom intruding. She kicked off her shoes and curled up on her couch. A pile of folders and binders filled the coffee table in front of her, all devoted to one subject: Madeline O’Keith Turner. She spent the next three hours working her way through the mass of material her staff had compiled. Eventually satisfied she had the measure of the president, she leaned back and dozed, setting her subconscious free.

  “Don’t you ever go home?” Marsten said from the doorway, waking her.

  The question wasn’t meant to be answered. Instead she said, “I’m worried.”

  “About the elephant?”

  “Of course. The risks are staggering.” She would never reveal all that she was thinking, but occasionally she had to vent her anxiety. Marsten alone could provide a sounding board.

  “And so are the rewards,” he said.

  “If I can pull it off.”

  He almost asked her how she was gaming it, but that would have been overstepping their unspoken boundaries. He looked at his watch. “I need to check on Duke.”

  “Is he in pain?” she asked.

  “Only a little.” He closed her office door as he left.

  Do what you must, she thought. Don’t let the poor animal suffer needlessly. An image of her beloved teddy bear came out of its hidden niche. She had been six years old when the family German shepherd had playfully torn it apart when she had left it in the backyard. Afterward, she could find only about half of the stuffed animal, and her father had taught her a painful lesson: She had to let go of something she loved very much. Together they’d buried the remains of the teddy bear in the flower garden. “This is one of those times,” her father told her, “when you don’t have a choice.” She’d been happy then. But that was before she learned about her father’s mistress.

  The image of the teddy bear changed into that of John Frobisher, the head of Front Uni. Why does he remind me of Teddy? she thought. For a moment she wondered what it would be like to cuddle him. “I don’t need a teddy bear at my age,” she said aloud. Where in the grand scheme of things do you fit? It was the same question she had asked about Mike Stuart. But unlike Stuart, John Frobisher was a variable she could control. She closed her eyes and dozed, putting her subconscious back to work.

  Newport News, Virginia

  Jenny and Grant were waiting for Stuart outside his parents’ home when he arrived. As usual, his mother was avoiding Jenny and nowhere to be seen. But the moment Martha saw Jane climb out of the Explorer, she came out of the house to meet them. Eric was right behind her, and he ran up to Jane. He skidded to a stop, not sure what to say.

  Jane took his left hand and examined it. “I think you’re big enough,” she said.

  “Big enough for what?” Eric replied.

  “To learn to play the guitar.”

  Eric was interested. “You can play the guitar?”

  “A little.”

  Jenny was anxious to leave and had Grant transfer their baggage to the Explorer while she and Stuart exchanged keys and paperwork. “Eric!” she called, “come say good-bye to Mother.” Her son came over and gave her a perfunctory kiss on the cheek before running back to Jane. Jenny gave Jane a quick look and then dismissed her out of hand. All she
saw was a short, stocky woman who dressed like a refugee from the Salvation Army.

  Grant slipped behind the wheel of the Explorer. “Nice wheels, man,” he said to Stuart. Jenny climbed into the passenger seat, and then they were gone.

  “Good riddance,” Martha said in a low voice.

  Shanker walked around Jenny’s old car and lifted the hood. He started the engine and listened for a few moments. “This thing is a wreck,” he announced. He gave Stuart a hard look. “When are you going to stop letting her run over you?”

  “Exactly what am I supposed to do?” Stuart asked.

  “When all else fails, select guns,” Shanker answered.

  Stuart eyed his father sadly. “One of your truisms?”

  “It worked when I was flying fighters.”

  “Sorry,” Jane said, “I don’t understand.” She was back in her four-word-or-less mode of communication.

  Shanker studied her for a moment. “In combat the cannon on a fighter, which we call ‘guns,’ is used for close-in fighting. It’s a fearsome weapon and gets their undivided attention. With a little luck you hose ’em out of the sky or your wingman nails ’em.” He didn’t wait for her to reply and slammed the hood of the car down. “I’ll get Chalky and we’ll work on this piece of shit. You all go eat lunch.”

  “I’ll help you,” Jane said.

  “Can I help, too?” Eric asked.

  “You bet,” Shanker said, glad that at least part of his family had their priorities in the right place.

  “You can all work on it after lunch,” Martha said, taking charge.

  “Sounds like a plan,” Shanker grunted, deferring to higher authority.

  After dinner Martha herded her family and two guests into the family room to light the first fire of the season in the fireplace. Jane sat next to Wing Commander Robin Seagrave while Shanker taught Eric how to start a fire. “Why the name Chalky?” Jane asked.

  “Didn’t have much choice in the matter,” Seagrave told her. “Hair turned gray in my twenties. If you’re in the RAF and have white hair, your name is Chalky. Full stop.”

  “Full stop?” Eric asked. “What does that mean?”

  “It means period,” Stuart said. “Like at the end of a sentence.” He smiled at his son. “Which you’re getting better at.”

  “Actually,” Shanker said, ragging on the Englishman, “Chalky has a fear of flying. That’s why the gray hair.”

  “Listen to the man,” Seagrave said, enjoying the good-natured rivalry. “This from the only bloke I know who had a fear-factor gauge installed in his aircraft.”

  Satisfied that the fire was going well, Eric disappeared. He was back a few minutes later carrying a guitar, still dusty from being in the attic. “That’s Maggot’s,” Shanker said. “Haven’t seen it in years.”

  “About the last time you saw a runway,” Seagrave added.

  “At least it didn’t have any crackpots sitting on it.”

  “Boys,” Martha called, signaling a truce.

  Eric handed the guitar to Jane and sat down on the floor beside her. Martha went into the kitchen to get a dust cloth, while Jane tuned the instrument. She took the cloth from Martha and lovingly polished the guitar, making it glow in the firelight. She strummed a few cords and retuned two strings. “I like sea chanteys,” she said, starting to sing.

  What shall we do with a drunken sailor?

  What shall we do with a drunken sailor?

  What shall we do with a drunken sailor?

  Ur-lie in the morning.

  When she had them all singing the chorus, she made up a verse.

  Put him in a jet plane, make him a pilot

  Put him in a jet plane, make him a pilot

  Put him in a jet plane, make him a pilot

  Ur-lie in the morning.

  The room rocked with laughter. Then she sang “The Sloop John B.,” and they heard a soft lament in her voice. Eric asked her to play the chorus again, and in a few moments they were singing. When they finished, she tuned another string, looking into the fire. The golden light framed her face.

  “You’re beautiful,” Eric whispered.

  She gave him a sweet smile and started to play an old ballad. Her voice changed, turning soft and pure, and magic captured the room.

  The water is wide, I cannot cross o’er,

  Nor do I have the wings to fly.

  Get me a boat that will carry two,

  And both will row, my true love and I.

  The phone rang, breaking the spell. Martha answered and handed it to Stuart. Then she sat beside her husband. “Did you see that?” she said in a low voice.

  “See what?” Shanker muttered.

  “She was singing to Mike.” She looked directly at Stuart as he talked on the phone.

  “Don’t be stupid, woman, she’s got too much sense for that.”

  Stuart dropped the phone and looked at them. “That was the Virginia state police. Jenny’s been in an accident.” He held out a hand to Eric.

  Eric stared at his father, his words barely audible. “Is she…” Martha stood and took a step toward her grandson. But Eric turned and found refuge in Jane’s waiting arms.

  Stuart cursed himself for handling it all wrong. “She’s hurt, but she’ll be okay,” he said. “She’s in the hospital.”

  11

  The White House

  A young man wearing a dark suit was waiting when the black Cadillac pulled to a stop at the entrance to the West Wing of the White House. He opened the rear door and extended a hand to help L.J. emerge. He immediately caught his breath as every camera and eye focused on her. “Ms. Ellis, this way please.” He motioned her into the West Wing as he walked beside her. Tim Roxford climbed out of the Cadillac and trailed along in their wake, completely overshadowed by L.J.

  She was wearing a bright red business suit with matching snakeskin pumps. The hemline to her skirt was short, but not too short. The coat snared in at her narrow waist and molded to her body, yet neither the skirt nor coat could be said to be too tight. The way her gold scarf crossed and hid her cleavage hinted that she was not wearing a blouse underneath. In short, the suit had been designed to showcase her figure, leave reporters searching their vocabularies for superlatives, women envious, and men gasping for breath.

  A woman reporter who had once been considered for the “Ten Best-Dressed Women in the Capitol” wrote, “Her bright red ensemble is a throwback to the days of Nancy Reagan and best described as the new business chic, part Hollywood, part Paris, and all Texas.”

  Another veteran White House reporter saw it differently when he said, “Not since the Kennedys has glamour burst on the White House in such abundance.”

  In his corner office in the West Wing, Patrick Flannery Shaw watched L.J.’s arrival on the security monitor. Officially Shaw was listed as a special assistant to the president, although no one knew exactly what he did. Unofficially he was part mentor, part strategist, part political adviser, all pit bull, and the implacable enemy of anyone who opposed the president. He heaved his bulk out of his chair and shambled down the hall, heading for the Oval Office. He arrived in time for the introductions. He crossed his arms and leaned against a back wall, watching every move L.J. made as she talked to Maddy. Only one thing puzzled him: Why had L.J. brought the pilot along? He worked that problem as the two women chatted amiably. He finally decided Tim Roxford was there as a counterpoint to draw the attention of women away from L.J. and the president. Very clever, he thought.

  Like the president, the four men in the room were wearing dark, very conservative suits. As a result L.J. glittered like a bright jewel, the only point of light against a dark background. I know what you’re doing, Shaw told himself. He listened carefully as the two women talked.

  “My staff,” the president said, “tells me you’re active in a variety of causes.”

  “It amazes me,” L.J. said, “how I get drawn in. Sometimes I seem to be working against myself.”

  “How so?” Maddy Turner
asked, sipping at her tea.

  “Well, I’m active in the women’s movement and support certain environmental issues.” She gave Turner a knowing look. “Of course, some are a total anathema to my business, so I avoid those. But I do try to explain our position.”

  “I take it,” Turner said, “that you’ve heard about my Task Force on the Environment.”

  “A good friend, Ann Silton, mentioned it to me.”

  Turner looked surprised. “You know Ann?”

  “I met her when she organized the Front Uni convention in Dallas. We hit it off immediately.”

  “Surely you don’t agree with everything she believes.” L.J. sipped her tea, carefully considering her reply. “Of course not.

  But I do trust her.”

  Shaw’s eyes narrowed. So you want Silton to head up the task force. Why? He made a mental note to follow up on it.

  There was a slight break as the photographers came in for the photo opportunity and to memorialize the visit. Shaw listened as two women reporters picked L.J. apart. “Look at that spider brooch on her left lapel. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Is it a Paloma Picasso?” the other reporter asked.

  “I don’t think so. But it’s exquisite.”