The song began to play again.
Her self-indulgence was so melodramatic that she always wanted to laugh at herself. But somehow she never managed it.
Bittersweet memories . . .
Just once a week to relive those old memories. Was that so terrible? Once a week, so she could make it through the rest of the days and nights of her life.
I will always love you.
* * *
Mat had everything he'd ever wanted. Money. Respect. A job he loved. And privacy.
If he reached for his flannel shirt when he came home from work, it was exactly where he'd left it.
When he opened his bathroom cabinets, he found shaving cream, deodorant, Ace bandages, and foot powder. Nobody got into his root beer, left her Walkman where he could step on it, or threw up on the carpet of the townhouse he was renting in Chicago's Lincoln Park.
He was only responsible for himself. He could change his plans on a moment's notice, watch the Bears lose without anybody interrupting him, and call his buddies to shoot some baskets whenever he felt like it. His life was perfect.
So why did he feel as if he'd somehow been cheated?
He set aside the newspaper he hadn't read. Most Saturday mornings he drove to Fullerton Beach and ran along the lake, but today he didn't feel like it. He didn't feel like doing much of anything. Maybe he'd try to get a start on next week's columns.
He gazed across his living room, which was furnished with big chairs and an extra-long couch, and wondered what they'd be doing today. Was Lucy getting along with the other girls at that ritzy private school Nealy had stuck her into? Had Button learned any new words? Did they miss him? Did they even think about him?
And Nealy ... it looked like she was getting ready to make a run for Jack Hollings's seat in the Senate.
He was happy for her—really happy—so he didn't know why he felt as if something were tearing open inside him every time he saw a photograph of her decked out in one of her designer suits.
He was tired of being alone with his own misery, so he started upstairs to change into his running shorts only to be stopped by the doorbell.
The last thing he wanted was Saturday morning company. He stalked over to the door and jerked it open. “What d'you—”
“Surprise! ”
“Surprise! Surprise!”
“Surprise!”
Seven of them. Seven surprises. His sisters burst inside and hurled themselves into his arms.
Mary Margaret Jorik Dubrovski . . . Deborah Jorik . . . Denise Jorik . . . Catherine Jorik Mathews . . . Sharon Jorik Jenkins Gros . . . Jacqueline Jorik-Eames . . . and Sister Ann Elizabeth Jorik.
Chubby and skinny; pretty and plain; college students, stay-at-home moms, professional women; single, married, divorced, bride of Christ—they exploded into his space.
“You've sounded depressed when we've talked to you . . .”
“. . . so we got together and decided to visit.”
“To cheer you up!”
“Out of the way. I have to pee!”
“.. . hope you have decaf.”
“Oh, God, my hair! Why didn't you tell me it looked like . . .”
“.. . use the phone so I can call the sitter.”
“. . . all the publicity these past few months has been so hard on you.”
“Shit! 1 snagged my new . . .”
“. . . what are sisters for?”
“. . . anybody have a Midol?”
They were barely in the door before, one by one, they started drawing him aside.
“. . . worried about Cathy. She might be doing her bulimia thing again, and . . .”
“. . . ran up my Visa . . .”
“. . . need to talk to you about Don. I know you never liked him, but . . .”
“. . . obvious that the prof hates me . . .”
“. . . if 1 should change jobs or . . .”
“. . . all two-year-olds are temperamental, but. . .”
“. . . give communion, and the fact that Father Francis can consecrate the host, but I can't. . .”
In little more than an hour, they got lipstick on his T-shirt. moved his favorite chair, snooped through his private organizer, borrowed fifty bucks, and broke the carafe on his Krups coffeemaker.
God, he was glad to see them.
Two of his sisters spent the night at the Drake, two more stayed with Mary Margaret at her place in Oak Park, and two stayed with him. Since he was sleeping like crap anyway, he gave them his king-sized bed and took the guest room.
As usual, he woke up a couple of hours after he'd fallen asleep and wandered downstairs. He ended up in the living room, where he gazed out at the dead leaves and branches scattered across his small patio. He envisioned Nealy, the way she looked after they'd made love, her hair tousled, skin flushed . . .
“We're awful, aren't we?”
He turned and saw Ann coining downstairs. She wore a god-awful gray robe that looked like the same one she'd taken off to the convent. Her springy hair stood out in mischievous curls from her round, chubby face.
“Pretty awful,” he agreed.
“I know I shouldn't complain to you about church politics, but the other nuns are so conservative, and—” She gave him a rueful smile. “We always do this to you, don't we? The Jorik girls are strong, independent women until we're around our big brother, and then we fall back into our old patterns.”
“I don't mind.”
“Yes, you do. And I don't blame you.”
He smiled and hugged her. What a hellion she'd been as a kid. So much like Lucy .. . Pain shot through him.
“What's wrong, Mat?”
“Why do you think anything's wrong?”
“Because you should be on top of the world, and you're not. You were part of the biggest human-interest story of the year. Everybody in the country knows who you are. You've got your job back, and you've had offers from the best papers and newsmagazines in the country. Everything you've wanted has happened. But you don't seem happy.”
“I'm happy. Really. Now tell me about Father Francis. What did he do to piss you off?”
She took the bait, which spared him from trying to tell her what he didn't want to explain—that he'd finally gotten exactly what he wanted out of life, and he hated every minute of it.
Instead of playing ice hockey, he wanted to go on a picnic. Instead of heading for the United Center, he wanted to put a baby girl in a sandbox and throw a Frisbee with her big sister. Instead of dating any of the women who kept coming on to him, he wanted to wrap his arms around a sweet, stubborn First Lady with eyes as blue as an American sky.
A sweet, stubborn First Lady who'd run off with his damn family.
Ann finally stopped talking. “Okay, buddy, I've given you some breathing room. Now it's time to 'fess up. What's going on?”
The cork he'd shoved so tightly into his self-awareness finally popped. “I've screwed up, that's what.”
He started to glower at his sister, but all the fight had run out of him. “I'm in love with Nealy Case.”
First Lady
22
He was in love! Mat felt as if he'd taken a hockey puck right to the head. Of all the jerk-off, lamebrained, self-defeating things he'd ever done, taking this long to figure out he loved Nealy was the worst.
If he had to fall in love, why couldn't it be with someone ordinary? But, no. Not him. Not Mr. Lunkhead. Because that would be too frigging easy. Instead, he had to fall in love with the most famous woman in America!
For the rest of the morning, Ann hovered around him, a pitying look in her eyes. Every once in a while he saw her lips move and knew she was praying over him, which made him want to tell her to keep her damn prayers to herself, except he'd never needed them more, so he pretended not to notice.
He took his sisters to lunch at one of the city's trendy Clark Street bistros, then fought the urge to ask them not to leave as they headed for their cars or the airport. They kissed him and hugged him and smear
ed their makeup on another one of his shirts.
That night, his house seemed even lonelier than usual. No sisters ambushing him with their problems.
No diapers to change or smart-mouthed teenager to keep an eye on. Even worse, there were no patriot-blue eyes smiling at him.
How could he have been so blind? From the moment they'd met, he'd been drawn to her like hot fudge to ice cream. He'd never enjoyed a woman's company more, never been so aroused by one. And not just physically, but intellectually and emotionally. If some evil genie came up to him right this minute and said he could have Nealy forever, but they could never make love again, he'd still take her. And what kind of thing was thafl He had it bad.
He couldn't stand being cooped up inside, so he grabbed his jacket, headed outside, and climbed in the Ford Explorer he'd bought to replace his sports convertible. The car was badly suited to downtown Chicago's crowded parking, but he'd justified buying it because it handled well on the expressways and it was almost big enough to fit him. The truth was, he liked the memories it brought back.
As he drove aimlessly through the narrow streets of Lincoln Park, he tried to figure out what he was supposed to do. He had no idea how deeply Nealy's feelings ran toward him. She'd enjoyed his company, and she sure as hell liked his lovemaking, but he'd also argued with her, deceived her, and manhandled her, so he could hardly expect her to run into his arms. He could hardly expect her to ...
Marry him.
He nearly rear-ended a white Subaru. Did he really expect America's uncrowned queen to bind herself for life to an overgrown Slovak roughneck?
You're damned right he did.
The next morning he packed up his laptop and his cell phone, threw some clothes in a suitcase, and tossed everything into the Explorer. He called his editor from the road to give him some mumbo-jumbo about a follow-up piece, promised not to blow his deadline for Wednesday's column, and set the cruise control. He and America's former First Lady had some serious talking to do.
Nealy's attorney refused to give him her address, so he used his connections in the Washington press corps, and by the next day he was in Middleburg, Virginia. The house wasn't visible from the road, but the eight-foot fence that surrounded it was plain to see, along with an elaborate set of electronic gates. He pulled the Explorer into the drive. Her press conference was tomorrow; he prayed she was home getting ready for it.
Above his head, a set of video cameras zeroed in on him. He hoped the fence was electrified, too, and a pack of Dobermans ran loose behind it. He had nightmares about her safety.
“Can I help you?” A man's voice came from a panel set in the brick.
“Mat Jorik. I'm here to see Mrs. Case.”
“Is she expecting you?”
“Yes,” he lied.
There was a brief pause. “You don't seem to be on the list.”
“I wasn't sure when I'd get here. If you ask her, she'll tell you it's all right.”
“Hold on.”
He hoped he looked more confident than he felt. Seeing these gates and the spacious grounds that stretched behind them made the gap between him and Nealy real instead of theoretical. He drummed his hands on the steering wheel. Why was it taking so long?
“Mr. Jorik?”
“Yes.”
“I'm sorry, sir, but Mrs. Case won't be able to see you.”
Mat gripped the wheel. “I'll come back later today.”
“No, sir.”
He waited, and the longer he waited, the more uneasy he felt. “How about tomorrow morning?”
“No. Mrs. Case won't see you at all.”
* * *
Nealy's stomach was in a knot, and her hands were freezing. Mat was here. Right outside her gate. She wanted to race from the house and down the drive, fling herself in his arms . . . only to be pushed away again.
It hadn't taken her long to figure out why he was here. Even though he'd been kept informed about the girls, he'd wanted to see for himself. Mr. Responsible.
Her hand trembled as she reached for the telephone in the family room to call her attorney. Mat couldn't simply breeze in and out of the girls' lives at his whim. It wasn't good for them, and it would be devastating for her. She had a campaign to concentrate on. A new life to build.
“Ma!” Button had already decided she didn't like having Nealy on the telephone. She banged her plastic truck against the carpet and gazed at her with a mulish expression that looked so much like Mat's it made Nealy want to weep.
She set down the phone, pushed aside the briefing book she'd been studying, and went over to sit cross-legged on the floor. Button immediately climbed into her lap, bringing along her truck and one of Andre's tiny blue sneakers.
“Gah bleg flel ma.”
Nealy hugged her close to comfort herself. “Me, too.”
She kissed her cheek and toyed with a lock of her hair, which was longer now and beginning to curl. “How can Mat do this?”
“Da?”
It was the first time Button had said the word since they'd left Iowa. The baby frowned and said it again. “Da?” Filled those lungs. “DA!”
Nealy couldn't let him in. She was barely getting through the nights as it was, and she couldn't make herself start the whole grieving process all over again. Especially when she had the most important press conference of her life tomorrow.
Nealy kissed her hand. “Sorry, sweetheart. It's not going to happen.”
Button stuck out her lower lip, and her eyes formed big blue circles. She rested her cheek against Nealy's breast.
Nealy stroked her hair and wished the four of them were back on the road again.
* * *
Mat parked on the street outside the gates with a half-baked plan to intercept Lucy when she came home from school, but a snub-nosed Secret Service agent had other ideas.
Mat started to point out that this was a public street, then decided not to give the guy a hard time. He was only doing his job, and his job was to keep Mat's family safe. The family Mat had walked away from.
As he headed to his hotel, he tried to think. But every insulting thing he'd said to Nealy, every order he'd tossed out, every complaint he'd made about being surrounded by women came back to haunt him. Nobody could ever accuse him of showing her his best side.
He was so caught up in misery that he drove past the hotel. What kind of jerk threw away something so precious? What kind of jerk threw away his family?
As he turned around, he decided he could spend the rest of his life beating himself up, or he could try to fix what he'd done his best to ruin. And to do that, he needed a plan.
* * *
Nealy exploded. “What do you mean, he's going on CNN?” She gripped her cell phone tighter and sank back into the leather interior of her Lincoln Town Car.
Steve Cruzak, the Secret Service agent who was driving tonight, glanced at her in the rearview mirror, then looked over at his partner, sitting in the passenger seat. Beyond the tinted windows, the rolling hills of northern Virginia gleamed in the morning sun as they headed east toward the Arlington hotel where Nealy would make her announcement.
“He didn't offer any explanations,” her attorney replied.
The heavy Chanel earring she'd tugged off to answer her phone bit into her palm. Normally her assistant would have been in the car with her, but she had the flu. Jim Millington, her new campaign manager, along with Terry and her key staffers, were already at the hotel mingling with the press as they awaited her arrival.
For three months Mat had refused to give any television interviews, but the day of the most important press conference in her career, he suddenly changed his mind. He was blackmailing her.
“Maybe you should talk to him,” her lawyer said.
“No.”
“Nealy, I'm not a political advisor, but the eyes of the entire country are going to be on your campaign. This guy's a loose cannon. Who knows what he has in mind? It wouldn't do any harm to sound him out.”
More harm than
he could imagine. “It's out of the question.”
“I'll try to talk to him.”
She returned her phone to the brown leather tote she carried instead of a purse, then clipped her gold earring back on. For her press conference, she was wearing a soft butterscotch woo! Armani sheath with a silk scarf knotted at her throat. The untidy haircut she'd worn on the road had been reshaped by her longtime hairdresser so that it looked sophisticated, but still contemporary. She'd decided to keep it short, just as she'd decided to keep her color natural. They were small changes, but to her they were significant. Each change was a sign that she had finally taken control of her life, which was why she couldn't let Mat force her into a meeting that would only cause her grief.
She pulled out her leather portfolio and studied the notes she'd been compiling for the past three months. They no longer made sense. Since Mat was so determined to speak with her, why hadn't he used the most obvious means at his disposal? Why hadn't he threatened to call a halt to the adoption if she refused to meet with him?
Because something that ugly would never have occurred to him.
“We're here, Mrs. Case.”
She realized they'd arrived at the hotel. The butterflies in her stomach began to tango as she put her notes away, then let the agent open the door for her.
A cluster of photographers waited, along with Jim Millington, a crusty Georgia-born political handler with a Deep South accent. “We've got ourselves a full house,” he whispered, as he took her tote from her. “Reporters from all over the country. You ready to rumble?”
“As ready as I'll ever be.”
Jim led her into the ballroom, which was filled with far more reporters than anyone else's primary campaign could attract. Nobody went through free food faster than the press, and the food tables looked as though they'd been attacked.
Terry approached her just as the speakers began playing Van Halen's “Right Now.” A fist squeezed her heart. It had been Dennis's campaign song and now it was hers. She and Terry had debated using it, but in the end they knew it would be both a tribute and a symbol of transition.
Terry took her arm. “Steady, babe.”
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