by Mary McBride
It was a beautiful morning, with just the right bite in the air and dew glistening on the roadside weeds. The sky was almost azure, unmarred by even the hint of a cloud. High overhead, he could see the shine of a jet heading west at thirty-five thousand feet. Sooner or later, that's what Angela would be doing. Flying west. The thought turned his stomach sour and heightened the ache in his arm.
“This is very nice,” Mrs. Riordan said.
“Yes, ma'am.”
“I'm curious, Robert. How long have you and Angela been married?”
“A few years,” he said.
“The senator and I were married for over fifty years.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“That must sound like an eternity to a young man like you.”
“It sounds good, Mrs. Riordan,” he said in all sincerity.
“Yes,” she murmured. “It was. It was very good. Mind you, I didn't say easy. Just good.”
They walked the next quarter mile in silence with his fellow agents well behind them, inching along in the big black SUV. The only vehicle that passed them was an empty yellow school bus, and the driver was careful to swing toward the center line when he blew by. Not too long after that, the president's mother stopped abruptly, planting her feet in the gravel and crossing her arms.
“Well?” She lifted her chin to his face. “Did he check out?”
“Excuse me?”
“You know very well whom. Professor Gerrard. Did he check out? Did the poor man pass whatever tests you people use?”
“He … uh … I …”
“Oh, for heaven's sake, Robert.” Her soft blue eyes flared. “Surely you're aware that I know about this ridiculous charade my son has arranged. I'm not a stupid woman.”
“No, ma'am.”
He knew she knew all along. But what Bobby didn't know at the moment was why this had taken the wind out of him so completely. He was standing there, shuffling from one foot to the other, looking like a blue-ribbon fool. Women. Old ones. Young ones. Smart ones. Dim ones. Christ. They were all way out of his league.
“Well?” she demanded.
Bobby sighed. “Our initial investigation didn't turn up anything worrisome, Mrs. Riordan. The professor checked out fine.” He decided not to tell her that the investigation was still in progress at his request.
“That's good. I'm pleased to hear it.” She lifted a hand to shade her eyes while she continued to look up at him. “Are you surprised, Robert? Or should I call you Agent Holland?”
He had to chuckle. “No, ma'am. I'm not surprised. Like you said, you're not a stupid woman. And anybody who'd take my wife for a cook would have to be a few points shy in the IQ department.”
“She's doing her best” she said, tamping down on a small chuckle of her own as she slipped her arm through Bobby's. “Shall we head back to the house?”
“Sure. We've got to cross to the other side, though, so I can watch the traffic, ma'am.”
“Oh. Of course.”
They crossed, and Bobby once again positioned himself on the side closest to the road.
“What would be the plan here, Agent Holland?” she asked in a playful tone. “I mean, if a speeding car comes directly for me.”
“I'd shove you in the ditch,” he said.
“You'd break my hip, young man.”
“Well, I'd try not to, ma'am.”
They both laughed. Bobby thought it was probably something Daisy Riordan hadn't done for a long, long time. Neither had he, for that matter.
“Tell me,” she said, “have you people given me one of those cute little names?”
“A code name, you mean?”
“Yes. Do I have one?”
“Actually, you don't, ma'am. Do you want one?”
“I'll take it under consideration.” She sighed, partly, it seemed, from relief, but mostly from the effect of the unaccustomed exercise. “Frankly, Robert, I'm just relieved to know that I'm not being referred to as Crazy Daisy. I'd hate that. I truly would.”
“Yes, ma'am,” he said softly, thinking Daisy Riordan was probably the least crazy person he'd ever known. And maybe one of the toughest, too.
Not that Angela was into drudgery, exactly, but while Mrs. Riordan was out on her walk it seemed the perfect time to strip her bed and make it up with fresh linens. Besides, if she didn't do it, it was a sure bet nobody else was going to.
While she was wrestling the fitted bottom sheet off the mattress, the phone on the nightstand rang. The professor, no doubt, still in hot pursuit. Angela picked it up, politely announced “Riordan residence,” and then heard, “This is the White House calling. Please hold for the president.”
Good God. She nearly slammed the receiver down in her panic. She'd never spoken to the president before. Not even during her stint on the First Lady's protective detail. Her mouth went dry, and when she tried to swallow, it sounded like a cartoon gulp.
To distract herself while she waited, Angela gazed at the photograph of Senator Charles Riordan beside the phone. He reminded her a little of Harry Truman, whom she'd always thought of as handsome in a kind of nerdy way. The sort of man who might take off his stodgy spectacles to disclose a pair of eyes as deep and blue as the Pacific Ocean. Or unbutton his geeky short-sleeved shirt with its pocket protector to reveal a dynamite chest. Raw sex appeal in a plain brown wrapper. A bit like Bobby in one of his subtle glen plaid, blend-into-the-woodwork suits.
“Mother? How are you?” the familiar State-of-the-Union, my-fellow-Americans, most powerful voice in the world inquired.
Angela gulped again. “I'm sorry, Mr. President. Your mother is out for a walk at the moment. This is Special Agent Angela Holland, sir.”
There was dead silence at the other end of the line. For a second she thought they'd been disconnected.
“Mr. President, sir?”
“Did I hear you right, young lady? My mother is out for a walk?” William Riordan sounded amused and confused all at once.
“Yes, sir.” In spite of her nerves, she nearly laughed, tempted to say, “If you think that's so surprising, wait'll I tell you about her date tonight.”
“Well, that's good news. I'm glad to hear it,” he said. “Everything going all right there, Agent Holland?”
“Just fine, sir.”
“Good. Good. Then she's not giving you any problems, I gather.”
“No, sir. None at all.”
“Well, that's fine. If you'll tell my mother I called, I'd appreciate it.”
“I will, sir.”
“Fine. And tell her I'll try to get back to her as soon as I can.”
“Yes, sir.”
“All right. Thank you very much. Oh, and tell that husband of yours that the White House is a much brighter place without his grim visage in it.” He laughed softly. “You tell him I'm glad my mother is in good hands. I'm grateful to you both.”
“Thank you, sir. I'll tell him.”
After she hung up, Angela went back to stripping the bed, trying not to think too much about either the grim visage or the good hands. Especially the good hands. She made up the bed with fresh sheets and pillowcases, then took the used ones downstairs to the little laundry room off the kitchen, where she got them going in the washer.
She checked the little window again, knowing it was secure but needing to do something, anything, to feel like a Secret Service agent instead of a cook and laundress. Undercover work really wasn't her forte, she decided. Maybe she was just too good at it because she was actually beginning to feel like a servant, and a rather incompetent one at that.
When the phone rang, Angela rushed to answer it in the kitchen just in case it was the president trying to reach his mother again, but it turned out to be Norma, yesterday's missing bridge player.
The woman seemed slightly confused about exactly who she was talking to, forcing Angela to finally say, “The maid.” Once that was established, she seemed taken aback when Angela told her Mrs. Riordan was out for a walk.
“Oh.
A walk? Do you mean outside?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Oh. My goodness. Well, I'm glad to hear that. I was concerned when Bootsie said Daisy was under the weather yesterday. I suppose it was just a twenty-four-hour bug. Was that what it was?”
Angela murmured noncommittally, all the while trying to remember the name of the bridge player who had canceled the day before. It was Norma, wasn't it? At any rate, she was certainly confused.
“Now who is this I'm speaking to?” she asked again.
Angela rolled her eyes. “I'm the new maid.”
“Oh, yes. Well, if you'll please tell Bootsie I called, I'd be ever so grateful.”
“You mean Mrs. Riordan.”
“Yes, dear. That's what I said. Good-bye now.”
Angela hung up, feeling a renewed appreciation of Daisy Riordan's mental faculties.
With nothing else to do just then—no bad guys to wrestle, no counterfeit bills to survey, not even a jerk like Eugene to put down—she went into the bedroom and gathered up her own dirty clothes and towels. Bobby, as she well knew, tended to pile his dirty stuff in the closet until the door would hardly close. She opened it now and stared at the shirts and jeans and briefs and socks, along with the Itos’ shoes.
Let him do his own damned laundry, she was thinking even as she bent to pick up a white polo shirt. And then, helpless to resist the urge, she buried her face in the soft cotton fabric and breathed in Bobby. Musky aftershave. The sweetish, sticky scent of his deodorant. A residue of masculine sweat. She could have wept.
“Ange?”
“What?” She flung the shirt down onto the pile and turned to see Bobby standing in the doorway.
He cocked his head. “What are you doing in the closet?”
“Nothing,” she snapped. “You should probably do some wash one of these days, or you're going to run out of clothes.” She pushed the door closed, even as his wonderful scent lingered in her senses. “How was your walk?”
“Nice and uneventful. Mrs. Riordan worked up a pretty good appetite, so I said I'd scramble her some eggs. Want some?”
That sounded so good. Bobby made the world's greatest scrambled eggs, probably because he'd fixed so many breakfasts for himself and Billy when they were kids. “No, thanks,” she said, feeling crabby all of a sudden and utterly perverse for sniffing her husband's dirty shirt. Worse, feeling utterly lost because she wanted to do it again if she couldn't have the real thing.
“You go ahead,” she said. “Oh, and tell Mrs. Riordan the president called and will try to get back to her later.”
“Okay.” A devilish grin touched his lips. “Does he miss me?”
She rolled her eyes dramatically. “He didn't say.”
“I'll bet he does.”
“Well, next time I'll ask him, all right?”
He leaned against the door frame, crossing his arms, lifting his eyebrows, looking as confident and cocksure as the sole rooster in an over-crowded chicken coop. “I'll bet you miss me, too, Ange, only you're just too damned proud to admit it.”
Miss him? Miss him? Burying her nose in his dirty laundry only meant she was a pervert. It had nothing to do with missing. By God, the next time she left L.A., she was going to pack some of Rod's dirty clothes just to take a hit every now and then.
“Miss you?” she screeched, losing control of her voice just as she had obviously lost control of her senses. “How can I possibly miss you when you've been in my face for the past four days?”
“You miss me.” He shoved off the door frame and turned to leave. “Sure you don't want some eggs?” he asked over his shoulder.
“No,” she shouted. “And don't mess up my kitchen, either.”
Bobby didn't mess up the kitchen. In fact, he left it cleaner than he found it before he spent the rest of the afternoon in the surveillance trailer, logged onto the Internet in search of anything he could find about Gerald DuMaurier Gerrard.
The guy had a résumé to make the average academic weep. Actual degrees in both literature and economics from Harvard, Yale, and MIT. Honorary ones from a score of prestigious schools. A list of publications, in literary rags and economic journals, long enough to pave an interstate. Testimonials out the wazoo, not to mention much speculation about Nobels and Pulitzers.
Bobby was impressed. And he was still suspicious as hell, although he couldn't exactly say why. The guy was just so goddamned persistent. Not that Daisy Riordan wasn't an attractive woman for her age, or excellent company when she chose to be. In fact, Bobby really liked her, even to the extent that he now felt intensely protective toward her on a personal level rather than merely a professional one.
It was that realization that made Bobby question his own competence. Maybe he was reacting to Gerald Gerrard and his romantic attentions more like an overly protective son than a coolly rational Secret Service agent. Maybe it was this business with Angela—being with her, sleeping with her, not sleeping with her—that was getting to him. He wasn't sure.
“Hey, Bobby. How's it going?” Tricia Yates, just coming on duty, passed behind his chair and riffled her fingers through the back of his hair where it met his collar.
It was far from an innocent gesture on her part, but she was probably unaware that it was comparable to lighting a match in a forest where not a single drop of rain had fallen in nearly a year. His entire body snapped to attention.
“Hey, Tricia,” he said, sounding if not feeling like Agent Cool.
She slid into the chair next to his. Today's attire, he couldn't help but notice, included a black skirt with a slit up the side that was just a miracle to behold when she crossed one long leg over the other.
“Still scoping out the professor, I see,” she said, peering at the monitor in front of him. “Come up with anything interesting?”
“Nope. But I haven't visited the card-carrying wacko site yet. There might be something there.”
“Doug thinks it's a waste of time,” she said, her voice low as she leaned closer in order to aim all of her choicest, nearly irresistible pheromones right at him. “Just FYI.”
“Doug thinks a lot of things are a waste of time,” he said, keeping his eyes on the screen, “including tying his shoelaces and changing his underwear more than once a week.”
She laughed. If Bobby turned his head even slightly to the left, their noses would have collided. He wondered vaguely if she was one of those women who only came on to married guys, wondered if that was her chosen sport, wondered if he should even consider himself married anymore.
The phone gave a sharp little ring. Tricia answered it before the second ring, then handed the receiver to him.
“Your wife,” she said, somehow managing to make it sound almost as pleasant as “Your dentist.”
Bobby lodged the receiver against his ear at the same time he turned away from Agent Yates. “Hey, babe,” he said softly.
“Change in plans, Bobby. Mrs. Riordan and the professor want to go to dinner before the movie. You've got about twenty minutes to change.”
“Okay. Be right there.”
She didn't hang up on cue. Instead, Bobby could hear the steam fairly hissing out of every one of her pores. God bless her Italian temperament. Go ahead, Ange, he dared her silently. Go ahead. Say it. I'm an immature, jealous asshole. You might as well be one, too, babe.
“How's Tricia?” she finally asked.
“Fine,” he said, trying his best not to laugh, loving her and the green-eyed monster she rode in on.
But he didn't laugh. He felt like crying instead as he hung up.
The restaurant, midway between Hassenfeld and Springfield, was called Via Veneto and sported the clichéd red-and-white-checkered tablecloths, candles flickering in little red fairy lamps, and murals of the Grand Canal complete with gondoliers. The odors of garlic and oregano blended with wine and beer fumes. Her parents would have adored the place, Angela thought.
Bobby, however, looked as if he wished he were anyplace else. Mrs. Riordan had
suggested separate tables at the last moment, and there had been nothing Bobby could do except politely accede to her wishes, then sit with Angela, where he could keep one eye on the front door and one eye on the happy couple in the nearby booth.
“I wonder how their cannelloni is?” Angela mused, surveying the menu.
Bobby shifted his chair slightly so the kitchen door was also within his general purview. “I wonder if anybody would blame me if I ordered a double martini,” he said glumly.
“Relax. She's fine.” Angela tilted her head toward the booth. “Look how happy she is. I think it's been so long since she's been out like this that she's just relishing every second.”
He muttered something unintelligible under his breath while his gaze accomplished another thorough one-eighty.
Angela closed her menu, having decided to take a chance on the cannelloni, after all. “So, did you find out anything more about Gerrard this afternoon?”
Bobby shook his head. “My instincts are usually right on, but this time I think they just might be wrong.”
She laughed. “That would be a first. What was it Billy used to call you? Mister I-think-therefore-I'm-right?”
“That's Major I-think-therefore-I'm-right.”
A wistful little smile edged across his mouth, and he appeared to relax just a bit, which pleased Angela. In the past two years, she'd seen him wound so tight it seemed he couldn't possibly do anything but explode. She reminded herself that it was the explosion that she wanted so desperately to see. But not tonight. Not now.
“Remember that little place near Arlington? What was it called? The place with the grape arbor and Chinese paper lanterns.”
He settled into his chair, relaxing even more. His jaw loosened a little and his eyes lost some of their wariness. “Il Biscotta di Fortuna,” he said with a halfway decent Italian accent.
“Right. That was it. The Fortune Cookie.” She sighed and sipped from her water glass. “That was where we kept ordering bottles of Chianti to toast our buona fortuna. I always thought you could hold your liquor until that night. In fact, that was the night I realized you were a real puss when it came to red wine.”
