by Lisa Gardner
Mary Winslow’s eyes narrowed to laser-blue pinpricks. “They told me you were a good writer.”
“I’ve written a few press releases in my time.”
Mrs. Winslow abruptly picked up a file and slapped it on Tamara’s desk. “These are the voter surveys we’ve conducted for the last six months. They report what issues are most important to women, to white males, to Indians, to the elderly, to Gen X. Read them. Get to know them. Then I want you to take the senator’s speech and see if you can fine-tune it—and I mean fine-tune, nothing huge, nothing drastic—to better reflect wider demographics. Then we’ll fax it back to the senator’s head speechwriter and see if we can get it to fly.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier to have the speechwriter do it?”
“Alex is a little busy these days, as I’m sure you can imagine. Besides, we don’t need anything major. Just enough to show that the senator is a broad-thinking man. He cares about the Navajo. He cares about the Hispanics. He understands the plight of the working mother. He feels the pinch of the middle-class family struggling to send their first child to college. He’s a family man.”
“That’s what all the young, pretty blond aides on Capitol Hill think, too,” Tamara murmured, picking up the file.
“I don’t need your sarcasm right now.”
Beneath the desk, Tamara’s hands curled into fists. Funny how composure used to be as second nature to her as breathing. Now she might as well sign up for a one-way ticket to Bellevue. Lovely. “Sorry. I’m a little tense.”
“Welcome to the club.” Mrs. Winslow stabbed her index finger toward the file again. “I’ll need this by end of day. Don’t get too wedded to anything, either. The senator likes to edit edits. Hopefully, however, we’ll end up with a version more appealing than this.”
“All right.”
Mrs. Winslow was already turning away, her finger pointed at the next victim.
“Mary—” Tamara said abruptly, seeing an unexpected opportunity. “What if we looked at more than just the senator’s speech?”
“Such as?”
“Well, the fundamental issue here is how do we repackage an older, old-school conservative politician to appeal to a younger, more diversified audience. Sure, we can tweak his speech, but it’s also the man himself. I don’t know why his publicist hasn’t gone over this with him, but those navy blue single-breasted suits and red striped ties he likes to wear? For crying out loud, he should just stamp Twenty Years Past Freshness Date on his forehead.”
Around them, a few eavesdropping volunteers giggled. Tamara warmed up for the kill. Her exhaustion was gone. She felt nervous, almost euphoric. She had an opening she hadn’t realized she would get, an opportunity to pry into the senator’s life. Her voice deepened to a rich, husky baritone that knew how to hold an audience. “We get the senator into a charcoal gray, double-breasted suit with a silk, maroon and navy blue abstract tie. Then we let him make an entrance.” She paused. Mrs. Winslow leaned forward.
“How does the senator normally come into town?” Tamara pressed innocently. “Limo? Lincoln Town Car with dark-tinted windows and his own driver?”
“He prefers a Town Car, yes, with his own driver. We always take care of the arrangements for him through one of the executive driving services in Phoenix.”
“Entourage?”
“Of course! He has his publicist, his secretary, his aide. This time his family will be joining him, of course, plus he has a few bodyguards. A man like him can’t be too careful.”
“It’s old-school. Don’t you see? It reeks of everything the voters are rejecting. Matthew Phillips isn’t traveling with a funeral train of black sedans and private drivers. He drives his own car. His aides drive their own cars—or actually, cars he probably bought for them. What if we put the senator in something younger, hipper? We could get . . . We could get one of the senator’s cars. He must own a few.”
“I’m sure he does.”
“Isn’t his house on the outskirts of Sedona?”
“Of course, it’s a lovely home. I believe . . . I think he may have a Cadillac, maybe a Buick, something like that. I really don’t see the difference between that and the car service we’ve already arranged for him.”
“What about something younger? Something, say . . . sportier. Does the senator have a sports car, you know, a . . . a red sports car?”
“What in the world would a man the senator’s age be doing with a red sports car?”
Tamara met Mrs. Winslow’s gaze blandly. “I don’t know. I thought men of all ages liked sports cars.”
“Not the senator,” Mrs. Winslow said firmly. “He’s a very image-conscious man, and for as long as I’ve known him, he’s driven fine, reliable American-made sedans. Really, to put him in a red convertible? That may appeal to the young voters, but that would destroy his image with his established fans. A man of his age in a red convertible. It just . . . it just wouldn’t do!”
Mary Winslow dismissed the notion once and for all with a negative shake of her finger.
“No,” Tamara said faintly after a bit, “I suppose it wouldn’t.”
Mrs. Winslow bustled away, leaving Tamara alone with her computer, press releases and a speech she was now to target toward women and minorities. The adrenaline had left her, killed by Mrs. Winslow’s simple but firm assertion that the senator had never owned a red sports car. He was an American sedan man. And most of his driving needs were taken care of by a professional service.
So if the senator had been at the American Legion to accept an award, how would he have ever left in a red sports car? Mostly likely the same driving service that took him to the ceremony took him home. No red car. No senator driving a sports car.
The phones around her were still ringing off the hook. Mrs. Winslow’s voice rose again as she lit into a new campaign soldier not performing up to par. Tamara sat there, rubbing her temples.
What if she was wrong? She’d glimpsed the man’s face so briefly and such a long time ago. Maybe it was just some guy, some totally random guy, and all these years, she’d doubted the wrong man, hated the wrong man, condemned the wrong man.
She didn’t know anymore. She just didn’t know, and the phones kept ringing and the people kept shouting and it was too loud to think. She picked up the speech. She couldn’t get herself to make a single edit.
I know it’s him, I know it’s him, I know it’s him.
Do you, Tamara? Or are you just that desperate for someone else to blame?
The memory came out of nowhere. She wasn’t prepared for it.
It was her own voice in the backseat of the car, ten years ago. “Look, Dad. Through the right-hand window. Isn’t that the most beautiful moon?”
“Oh, my God, Robert! Look out! Look out!”
Her fingers snapped the pencil she was holding. Her fingers were trembling again. She got up, holding herself together very carefully. She went to the women’s restroom and splashed cold water on her face.
She still couldn’t get her own voice out of her mind.
• • •
At eleven o’clock that night, Tamara finally left the campaign war room. Others remained behind. With one week to go, the sheer volume of work was overwhelming. In New York, Tamara routinely worked until one or two in the morning. The machine, they called her. The woman who could always get it done.
In Sedona, she was the volunteer with the bloodshot eyes and the drooping expression. Mrs. Winslow hadn’t been able to stand looking at her anymore.
“Go home,” she’d barked. “Get some sleep. Take tomorrow off if you have to. I need you one hundred percent on Monday.”
Now Tamara stood in the darkened parking lot, inhaling the dry, spicy air and listening to the soft whir of late-night birds. The Arizona sky spread above her like a lush expanse of midnight blue velvet. In the distance, dark cutouts indicated the looming Rock Monuments. Stars dusted their forms like sequined trim. Desert nights were so unbelievably soft. She’d never really considered
it before. In contrast, Manhattan nights were harsh and meant only for the hard at heart.
She walked to her car, her gaze scanning the parking lot. Then she realized she was looking for signs of C.J. and forced her gaze back to her car. Did she really expect him to be out here waiting for her? It was late on a Saturday night. The man had a bar to run. And a good thing, too; she was tired of him always appearing. She was tired of dealing with him.
Her hand paused on the door of her Lexus. Her gaze was still scanning the darkness for his familiar form. Dammit. She scowled. She missed him. She did. Somehow, she’d gotten accustomed to him showing up at the darnedest places, with his quick grin, probing gaze and strong shoulder.
You will not need C. J. MacNamara. I forbid you to need C. J. MacNamara.
“I forbid you to need anyone,” she muttered out loud, then, realizing she was talking to herself in the middle of an empty parking lot, she crawled into her car before she made a total spectacle of herself.
She headed straight back to her hotel. She needed a good night’s sleep. Maybe a swim to loosen up tensed muscles. A late, hearty breakfast to regain some of the weight she was losing. She knew better than to let herself run down like this. She should take better care of herself. Health mattered.
She found herself pulling into the parking lot of the Ancient Mariner without knowing how she got there. By night, it was everything it hadn’t been by day.
The parking lot was jammed full of cars. Bright outside lights lit up the wooden structure with gay welcome. A spotlight rested on a three-foot-high carved statue of an old sea captain leaning on a cane, while painted white letters announced The Ancient Mariner.
Music spilled out of the wood. Tamara could hear the pounding pulse of a deep bass and the high, trilling crescendo of an electric guitar. Rock ’n’ roll. Good, old-fashioned, foot-tapping, finger-snapping music. The kind that made you smile while you listened. The kind that made people laugh and talk louder and clank beer mugs. The walls were practically shaking with it.
And she could picture C.J. standing in the middle of it all, like a captain at the helm of his ship, guiding it effortlessly through the storm. It was his kind of place. Vital, wild and fun.
She sat in her car, her hands flexing and unflexing on the wheel.
She should just go in. She could say she wanted to see how Sheila was doing. She could find a barstool; she could order a beer. She didn’t remember the last time she’d had a beer. She didn’t remember the last time she’d been in a working-class bar. She could sit and listen to the music and watch the people and see if she sat there long enough, would that fun seep into her? Would she finally relax? Would she finally wear herself out to such a point she could sleep without dreams? She was so tired of the pictures creeping into her mind.
She wanted to see C.J. She just did.
I don’t need him.
You miss him.
I don’t miss anyone. It’s stupid to miss people. They are either there or not.
He’s a handsome man. He smiles. He makes you smile—when you let him. There’s nothing wrong with that.
There is everything wrong with that. I’m not his type. We have nothing in common. He likes me only for the challenge.
He cares. He understands you better than you realize. And he’s gotten to you—just an itty, bitty bit.
She scowled. Again. She hated it when she lost arguments with herself. She stared at the lit-up, pulsing bar with open yearning—like the little girl on the fringe of the party. She hungered to go inside. To belong. To feel at home.
She didn’t move. She was afraid. She was isolated, and she didn’t know how to crack the ice. She felt like Sleeping Beauty, lying in the crystal with her eyes open, wanting to move, to sit up, to walk away, but only able to lie there and hope the prince would get smart and kiss her.
No, I will not be passive. Ben taught me better than to be passive. You want to get to the end of the parallel bars, you take a step. So take the step, Tamara. Stop thinking of the damn consequences and just take the step.
She shoved open her car door. And one of New York’s most accomplished public relations executives bolted across the parking lot so she could get into the bar before she changed her mind.
• • •
“Uh-oh,” Gus drawled. “Look at the door. That’s gotta be trouble.”
C.J.’s head popped up instantly from behind the bar where he was loading beer mugs in the tiny dishwasher. Who was trouble? Then he spotted Tamara in the open doorway, light spilling around her. She was easy to recognize. In her trim black pantsuit, discreet pearl earrings and upswept hair, she stood out amid the Ancient Mariner’s casually dressed clientele like a princess visiting the peasants.
“Wow,” C.J. said, unable to tear his gaze away. He was supposed to be angry with her. He’d told himself he’d had enough—he wasn’t going to look her up today; he wasn’t going to keep chasing her. She’d made her opinion clear, and he had better things to do with his time than pursue a woman who changed her story every five minutes. Now she was here, in his bar, and like an alcoholic confronted by an icy, cold beer, his good intentions went out the window. God, it was good to see her.
“New York,” Gus said as if it were a curse.
“Yeah, Gus, but I know her. That’s Tamara. The one Sheila’s been talking about. She’s nice. And she races cars.”
Gus screwed her scarred face into a look that screamed skepticism. C.J. didn’t care; his gaze was still on Tamara. From across the room, still standing uncertain in the doorway, she finally spotted him. Her lips curved slightly. Hesitant, tremulous, she smiled. And because he knew her, because he’d spent days memorizing her, he understood exactly what that kind of welcoming smile cost a proud woman like herself. He wanted to bolt across his wooden bar, sweep her into his arms and dance her around the floor until her hair fell out of its fancy twist, her face grew flushed and her eyes glowed gold.
Instead, he stood like a statue as she carefully wove her way across the crowded red floor. People were standing and jostling, screaming to one another to be heard over the jukebox. Even then, Tamara managed to keep a wide berth of empty space around her. In her fancy black suit, she emoted the kind of presence that made others step back.
“Hi,” she said at last, arriving at the bar. The word was whispery, not at all certain.
“You don’t know why you’re here,” he filled in for her frankly.
“I wanted to see how Sheila was doing.”
“You told yourself you shouldn’t come. You told yourself you didn’t really miss me. But then you found yourself here, anyway.”
“Is Sheila around?”
“I’m happy you came, Tamara. I’ve thought about you a lot. I’m really, really happy that you’re here.”
“Oh.” Her eyes were no longer distant, her face no longer so pale. She was leaning forward slightly, and he caught the unmistakable longing. It froze the breath in his throat. He wanted to know exactly what she longed for. At this moment, he would give it to her. He would give her the earth, the moon, the stars if he could.
“Could I . . . um . . .” She licked her lips nervously. “Could I have a beer?”
“Okay.” His gaze remained on her freshly moistened mouth. Her lips were devoid of lipstick, a natural, deep, kissable red. He remembered kissing those lips, too. He remembered the first, unsatisfactory kiss when she’d stood so stoically. And he remembered early this morning, when she’d practically sucked his mouth off his face.
Gus reached across him and yanked the tap down so that beer flowed into the mug he was holding beneath the spout. “Got customers,” she said.
“Oh, oh yeah.” He belatedly handed the beer to Tamara, introducing her to Gus. The women exchanged wary glances, but seemed to decide that each other would do. “You’ll stay for a bit, right? Here, here, come here.” C.J. motioned Tamara down to the end of the bar, starting to feel a little giddy. She was in his bar, and it reminded him of the first time he’d invite
d a girl to sit in his car. He was possessive, nervous and excited all at once. He loved his bar. He was damn proud of his bar. He found he wanted her to love it, too, to see it the way he did. Of course, it was just a bar.
“Sit right here—it’s the waitress section. Sheila will be by a lot with orders, and I’ll have to stand here to fill them and . . . and we can talk a bit. Between the madness.”
“Gus won’t mind?”
“Gus will give me hell,” he assured her, then grinned. “But hey, I’m the boss.” He winked, and her lips slowly curved into a smile. God, she had such a smile. He clutched his chest dramatically and her cheeks flushed red.
“I’m really happy you’re here,” he said softly once more. He whirled away before she had a chance to reply and resumed pouring beers.
“Chest puffs out anymore,” Gus said, “you’re gonna crow.”
“Isn’t she something?”
“New York,” Gus said again.
“Nice New York, Gus. Nice New York. Even Manhattan has good people.”
“Bah.”
• • •
Tamara seemed to be having a good time. He glanced at her all he could, sneaking little comments when he dared, but the Ancient Mariner’s owner was a popular man on a Saturday night, and all his money-spending patrons wanted fresh beers. The third time by, he pulled up short and realized she hadn’t touched her mug.
“Don’t like it?” he asked immediately. For some reason, the thought left him stricken.
“The idea of beer was better than the taste,” Tamara admitted. She shrugged helplessly. “Actually, I’m kind of a wine person.”
“I have wine! Chardonnay, white zin, Riesling. What would you like?”
“Chardonnay would be perfect.”
“Coming right up.” A pair of cute blondes flashed a ten-spot so he’d take their order. He ignored them and filled a glass for Tamara. Then he waited while she tasted it.
“Oh.” Her face lit up. “Nice.”
That crisis momentarily diverted, C.J. returned to the other customers. When he looked over again, Sheila had stopped by and the women were deep in conversation. As soon as the hospital had doctored Al’s head, the sheriff had thrown him in jail, providing Sheila with at least momentary peace of mind.
