by Pat Warren
Yawning, Molly walked toward the back, where Liz waited for her. She stretched dramatically, raising her arms and arching her back, getting out the kinks. Her royal blue oversize sweater lifted, revealing well-formed muscles beneath her slim black slacks. Molly was tired and glad the day was over.
She turned to Liz and caught her studying the bust of a young Adam McKenzie by an artist known only as Megan O’Malley. “Not a day goes by that I don’t have someone asking about that piece. I’m so glad you finally let me display it.” Molly knew she could sell it and another dozen similar for a great deal. She also knew Liz would never allow that.
In a weak moment, Liz had allowed Molly to show the bust. This was the first time she’d seen it displayed under Molly’s skillful lighting. Liz hadn’t minded parting with her other pieces, and several had sold well. But it unnerved her to see this, her favorite, on public exhibit. “Has anyone guessed the model’s identity?”
“No one seems to try. They just admire the workmanship, the sensual beauty of the piece. I have overheard several women say they wouldn’t mind having a man who looked like that park his shoes under their bed.”
Liz tilted her head. “He’s an odd combination of sexy and boyish, isn’t he? Even now when he’s years older.”
“Have you seen him lately?”
“No, of course not. Just on the news.”
“Some men age well and others don’t. Women, too. You’re looking particularly good these days. Any particular reason? New makeup? New outlook?”
Liz smiled. “I wasn’t aware I looked better, but thanks. I think it has to do with a certain resigned contentment. When we’re young, we’re always straining, it seems, for more, for better. I just turned thirty-three, and I think I’ve come to grips with my life. Learned to accept things, you know.”
Molly reached up to fractionally straighten a painting on the wall. “Sooner or later, we all have to, I guess. That daughter of yours sure helps keep you young. What a precocious kid.” Molly, who satisfied her maternal yearnings by spending time with Sara, had had the young girl to her condo last weekend. By the time she’d taken her home, Molly had been exhausted. “She has more energy than you and I combined at her age.”
Liz smiled, always pleased to talk about Sara. “That she does. Did she tell you her latest? She’d going to become a foreign correspondent, cover world events and write wonderful news stories.”
“She just might, at that,” Molly said, grabbing her coat and leading the way to the door. “She did tell me that the principal wanted her to skip a grade and you wouldn’t let her. She was miffed.”
Liz zipped up her suede jacket. “Yes, I know. She’s already skipped one grade. Another jump would put her with kids two years older. While I think Sara could keep up her studies, her emotional development would suffer. They’d be dating, so she’d want to. There’d be makeup and driving concerns. I’m simply not ready for all that.”
“Can’t say I blame you.” Outside, Molly secured the lock. “Is Richard feeling any better?”
A worried frown wrinkled Liz’s forehead. “Not really. I’ve been after him to get a checkup, but he says he’s just been working too many hours. He’s promised me he’ll slow down.”
“He should. Life’s too short.” Molly thrust her hand through the crook of her friend’s arm. “I am glad he doesn’t like Christmas shopping, so we can go together. Shall we get a bite to eat first, maybe a glass of wine?”
“Absolutely.” Together, they crossed the street.
“Stay at this end of the pool, Keith,” Diane warned her son as she climbed out the steps.
“I am at this end,” he answered sassily, then grinned at her to show he didn’t mean it. Squinting, he concentrated on lining up his bobbing sailboats.
Using a beach towel, Diane dabbed at her wet hair, knowing she looked a mess. Her nails were just as bad, the polish chipped, the cuticles in need of repair from constantly being in this damn chlorinated water. Why in hell Adam insisted that Keith learn to swim in one summer was beyond her. Three times a week the instructor came, and Adam had made her promise that in between lessons she’d oversee Keith’s practice sessions for at least an hour a day.
“Mommy, watch me,” Keith yelled. “I’m going to go under and hold my breath.” He did, then popped up, spraying water every which way, wearing a proud look. “Mommy, did you see that?”
“That was good, sugar.” Keeping an eye on the little towhead, she sat down at the poolside table, stuck an Eve into her holder, lit up, and inhaled deeply. Under the shade of the umbrella, she shook her head as she watched her adopted son playing contentedly. She was certain he was the only contented one for miles around.
Blowing smoke, Diane kept watch, the familiar resentment building with each passing minute. This hadn’t been exactly how she’d foreseen her life. She spent all her waking and many of her night hours with Keith. Adam was in Washington quite a bit, which was where she longed to be. When he did come home, he spent nearly all his time with Keith—in the pool, taking him bicycling, to the zoo, the park, everywhere. If she so much as asked to go out to dinner, he would frown and say he hated leaving Keith with a sitter. Ridiculous!
It was good for children to be watched by other people so they wouldn’t get too attached to their parents, she often told Adam. He didn’t buy it. His mother had stayed home with her two boys. His mother had made homemade cookies and fingerpainted in the kitchen with them. His mother had apparently been a frigging saint, which Diane decidedly was not.
Too bad she’d died two years ago, or they possibly could have persuaded her to move nearby. Maybe Adam would have trusted her to baby-sit. “Keith, get back on the steps,” she called out. Without looking up, the boy obeyed. Basically he was a good kid. Surprising herself, she’d grown to care for him, not the nutsy way Adam admired him; but she had to admit he was cute and bright. Still, he was always there, always needing something, always chattering, always hungry or tired or not feeling good.
Four years, nearly five, and Diane had about had it.
She’d hung in there, thinking soon Keith would go to school and she’d be free again. But a recent discussion about that had turned into a shouting match. Adam wanted her to drive Keith to school and pick him up daily from kindergarten. The son of a man in the public eye could easily become a kidnapping victim. That would leave her about three and a half precious hours alone, if you didn’t count driving time. What exactly could she do between eight and eleven-thirty A.M. , stay home and bake cookies?
In a pig’s eye, she would.
She wanted to hire a housekeeper who’d help care for Keith, one who’d drive him back and forth to school. Adam didn’t approve. A child needed to know his parents cared. He’d picked up Keith and stormed off the night they’d quarreled over that. She’d called a friend and gone to a movie, anything to get out of the house. When she’d returned they’d both been asleep, Adam in the guest room. Good. She hoped he’d stay there.
He’d left for Washington this morning, saying a cool good-bye and emphasizing that he’d better not come back to find a housekeeper ensconced. She’d almost thrown a glass pitcher at the door he’d closed behind him.
Diane put out her cigarette and stared moodily at her son. It wasn’t Keith’s fault. She would have to find a way to get through to Adam before she went crazy. Fitz might have been a help, but he was as nuts about Keith as Adam, spoiling the boy rotten. No one, but no one, cared how she felt.
The phone rang, and Diane got up. The red portable was sitting on the pass-through counter from the kitchen. “Stay where I can see you, Keith,” she called over her shoulder as she picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
She began to smile almost immediately. It was her favorite reporter from the San Diego Union, calling for an interview. He was doing a piece on successful women. Thank God she hadn’t been totally forgotten. Swinging about so she could still see Keith, she leaned against the brick wall and listened to his questions.
&nb
sp; Brett Wilson had learned about the hours she contributed to working at shelters for battered women. Those times Adam didn’t mind her getting a sitter, for he believed in what she was doing. The fact was that although she continued to go, Diane had begun to find the volunteer work extremely depressing. But it was a source of pride to her, so she talked it up to Brett.
She loved these interviews. People asked her opinion as if it really mattered. She always answered carefully, thoughtfully. She turned her back to an insistent breeze to light another cigarette, warming at the reporter’s praise. It felt good to be respected and admired. The questions went on and on, and she answered happily.
“The senator and I believe in helping the less fortunate,” Diane stated. “As you know, the need is tremendous. I might just mention that I’m speaking at a luncheon at the Sheraton next Wednesday. We’re trying to raise funds for a building. These poor people have so little. We could use a bit of publicity.”
“You’ve got it. With you behind the project, Mrs. McKenzie, it can’t help but succeed,” Brett said. “And I can’t thank you enough for taking the time to answer my questions.”
“No problem, sugar.” Still smiling, Diane hung up the phone. She could trust him. He’d write a nice article. Maybe if she showed it to Adam, he’d agree that she’d be more useful in that capacity rather than baby-sitting his child.
After propping her cigarette in the ashtray, Diane turned toward the pool. Her heart flip-flopped when she saw Keith wasn’t on the stairs. “Keith,” she called out.
Her eyes darted around the perimeter of the cool-deck. She couldn’t see where he might have climbed out. Sometimes he liked to hide to fool her.
“Sugar, don’t play games with Mommy.” Fighting panic, Diane raced over to the steps. “Keith! Keith, where are you?” Frantic now, she hurried along the pool’s edge, then stopped short. Her scream echoed in the hot summer air as she rushed to jump in.
Keith was at the bottom of the deep end.
CHAPTER 11
“Amazing grace, how sweet the sound…”
Liz sat in the next to the last pew of the century-old church in the shadow of the Capitol Building in Sacramento and struggled with a fresh rush of tears. She hadn’t ever seen the sweet-faced little boy lying in the small white casket in front of the altar except on television and in newspaper pictures. But her heart ached nonetheless for his family in the first row, listening to the words of comfort offered in the old hymn.
Richard reached over and grasped her hand, and gratefully she laced her fingers through his. Though he still seemed more tired than usual, he’d suggested they come after hearing of young Keith McKenzie’s death just two days ago, and she’d agreed they should, a bit reluctantly because she’d always thought grief a private matter.
Though Fitz had asked the media before the service had begun to respect the family’s privacy, she saw several reporters and photographers hovering along the back wall. The small church was packed to overflowing with sympathetic friends and supporters, and others crowded around outside.
On her other side, Molly sat with her head bent. A child’s death affected everyone. Liz took hold of her friend’s hand as the song drew to a close.
They all stood as the service ended. The white-gloved pallbearers slowly carried the casket draped with a floral blanket down the center aisle as the minister walked over to say a few words to Adam and Diane. Liz had been watching and had seen Diane’s shoulders shaking as, with head bowed, she’d wept for the son who’d died so tragically. Surprisingly, Adam hadn’t reached over to comfort her, nor had he so much as moved his head since sitting down. Ramrod straight, he’d sat through the ceremony, stiff and silent in his grief. Even Fitz, usually unemotional, had swiped at tears several times, but not Adam. Yet Liz knew he must be hurting badly.
Those in the front pews began filing out and following the casket toward the rear doors. Now Liz could see Adam’s face, and she swallowed around a huge lump in her throat as she caught her first glimpse of him up close. Skin ashen, his steps wooden, his glazed eyes fixed on the small procession before him, he seemed suddenly older and unbearably wounded. Alongside him, her face covered with a fine black veil, Diane walked unsteadily, sobbing into a handkerchief.
Fitz, his eyes hidden by dark glasses, came next, followed by a balding, heavy-set man Liz didn’t recognize. Several of the senator’s aides trailed after, clutching the hands of their wives. Intermingled with the group were men she knew were from Special Services. Even in grief a United States senator had to be guarded against the crackpots of the world, she supposed. How very sad.
Dabbing at her own eyes, Liz felt an overwhelming surge of anger at the fates that had delivered still another blow to Adam. No one who’d seen him on television with his son in his arms just mere months ago at his reelection could doubt his love for the boy and his joy in having him. Adam had had such difficulty recovering from his accident, and now this. She couldn’t help but wonder how this new tragedy would affect his marriage to Diane.
The press coverage of the accidental drowning had shocked Californians still on an extended honeymoon with their junior senator. What shocked Liz today was noticing that Adam and Diane seemed separate in their grief. Usually, in a mutual tragedy, married couples, even those not crazy in love, clung together in comfort. Yet each of them seemed so alone.
Walking beside Liz as they left, Molly leaned close to whisper, “Did you see Adam’s face?”
Liz nodded, not trusting her voice.
Outside, a light summer rain was falling from a dismal gray sky. How fitting, Liz thought. Even the weather was sorrowful. Umbrellas popped open as people moved toward their cars. Despite frowns from the Special Services men, flashbulbs went off and reporters recorded reactions in their notebooks. Liz recognized several senators and congressmen, the governor of California, a few judges, and even a special representative of the president.
From the bottom of the stone steps under the overhang, the minister held up his hands for attention. “The McKenzie family has asked me to thank each of you for your comforting support. They ask also that you please not accompany them to the burial, which is to be private and for family members only. Thank you.”
Thank goodness, Liz thought as she watched several people walking over to shake Adam’s hand as he stood by the dark limousine. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to handle an additional graveside ceremony.
At Liz’s elbow, Richard urged them forward. “Let’s offer our condolences before we leave,” he suggested.
It was the proper thing to do, she knew, yet she hated pushing forward in the small group drifting toward Adam and Fitz, who’d moved to his brother’s side. Diane had ducked inside the limo, most likely unable to stand another offer of sympathy, no matter how kindly intended.
Molly broke away and walked over to Fitz, embracing him with a consoling hug. “I’m so very sorry, Fitz,” she murmured.
Holding her close briefly, Fitz removed his glasses and closed his eyes. “Thank you for coming.”
She leaned back, searching his face. “How are you holding up?”
He shrugged, taken aback. The sympathy thus far had all been aimed at Diane and Adam. No one seemed to remember that he’d loved that little boy as if he’d been his own son. His eyes bright, Fitz held on to her hands. “I’m all right. It’s Adam I’m worried about.” He glanced at his brother standing several feet away. “He’s locking it all inside. He hasn’t cried, hasn’t let it out.”
“Everyone handles grief in his own way, Fitz,” Molly said.
“I suppose you’re right.”
“You’re such a good brother, such a good friend,” she told him, her voice low, private. “Always looking out for Adam, worrying about him. I often wonder, who nurtures you?”
More than a little surprised at the question, as well as the woman asking, Fitz studied Molly. He debated, then came to a decision. “Can you stay? I’ll see to it that you get home.” The request was out of character
for him, but this wasn’t a usual day.
If Molly was surprised, her face didn’t show it. She gave a brief nod and squeezed his hand. “I’ll just go tell Liz.”
Liz wasn’t in the least astonished. Her friend had become more concerned about the feelings of others since Nathan had hurt her so cruelly. “Of course we don’t mind,” Liz told her, touching her cheek to Molly’s. “I know Fitz can use your support.” For the second time since she’d known him, Adam’s brother looked truly unsettled.
Turning, Liz heard Richard say a few words, then step aside. Suddenly no one was standing between her and Adam. She looked up into his eyes. They were more gray than blue today and as bleak as the murky sky, reflecting an irretrievable loss, a heart-wrenching emptiness. Unable to think of anything to say that would help him, she instead opened her arms and moved to hold him close for a moment.
She felt more than heard his breath catch as he struggled with his emotions, his strong hands crushing her to him. Just as abruptly, he released her, and she moved on to allow the person behind her to approach him. Richard took her hand and they hurried through the rain toward the church parking lot.
It wasn’t until she was settled in their rented car that Liz realized tears were flowing down her cheeks.
Fitz pushed in the blinking button on his desk phone and spoke into the receiver. “Diane? It’s Fitz. I’m sorry, but Adam’s tied up and can’t come to the phone just now. He asked me to tell you that he’s not sure when he’ll be home and to go ahead without him.”
“Apparently he’s forgotten that we’re expected at the Springers’ for cocktails and dinner tonight at seven,” Diane said, trying to keep the annoyance out of her voice and failing miserably. “That’s Senator Springer, the man he’s been needing to talk with regarding that committee appointment.”
In contrast, Fitz’s voice was calm, patient. “Senator Springer talked with Adam after the morning session and they’ve come to an agreement. He’s also aware that Adam will be tied up in meetings till late tonight. So, as I said, you go on to the dinner party without him and he’ll be home when he’s finished.”