by Mary McBride
There was a gun in his hand when he stood, when he turned, but it hardly had time to register on Daisy's brain before something, someone, a hard arm, hurled her down.
She was falling, flailing, when she heard the first shot. The second one exploded just as she hit the floor.
No sooner had Angela lowered her weapon and screamed, “Officer down!” into her wrist mike than the front door crashed open and a wave of agents raced past her to surround the dazed president and move him briskly out of harm's way.
“But my mother—” William Riordan said as they swept him past Angela in a human current that flowed out of the room and dragged her with it toward the door.
“Bobby!” she screamed, breaking free.
By the time she reached him, Daisy Riordan held him cradled in her arms. There was blood all over. Gerrard's from her head shot. Bobby's.
She shrieked into her mike again—”Officer down!”— then sank to her knees. She thought she saw where the bullet had hit his arm, then realized it wasn't blood at all but the crimson heart tattoo.
Suddenly something seemed to crack inside her, and instead of tears pouring from her eyes, a hot fury roared through her veins. “Breathe, Bobby. Do you hear me? Do you? I swear to God, if you don't hang on here, I'll kill you myself.”
“Do you hear that, Robert?” Mrs. Riordan said barely above a whisper, but firmly all the same. “I'm sure she means it, too. I'd strongly urge you to survive, my dear.”
Bobby opened his eyes and looked up at Angela. “You okay, Ange?”
“Ssh. Yes. I'm fine. The president's fine. You're going to be fine, too.”
“I'm trying here,” he said weakly. “Hard to breathe.” Then his gaze flickered farther up toward Mrs. Riordan, and a tiny grin pulled at his taut lips. “You're crying, Daisy,” he said.
“I most certainly am not,” the president's mother snapped.
“Yes, you are,” he said. “Isn't she, Ange?”
“Yes,” Angela whispered. “She is.”
Bobby closed his eyes a moment, then blinked up at Daisy Riordan again. “So, tell me,” he said. “How does it feel?”
Mrs. Riordan swiped at her wet eyes with the back of her hand. “It feels … it feels … well… not so horrible.”
“Glad to hear it,” Bobby replied as his meager grin twisted into a grimace. “Because … Jesus … I'm about to do the same thing myself.”
Huge tears slid from the corners of his eyes just before he slipped into unconsciousness.
20
Two weeks later, Angela paced back and forth in front of a hangar at Andrews Air Force Base. Not too far away, Doug Coulter was doing his own motionless pacing by lighting one cigarette after another.
“He's late,” she said, looking at her watch for what must have been the hundredth time in the past half hour.
“This isn't exactly what you'd call a scheduled flight, Angela,” Doug said. “Relax. He'll be here in a few minutes.”
Relax. She hadn't relaxed for two consecutive minutes since Bobby had been shot. First there was the harrowing helicopter ride from Hassenfeld to the hospital in Springfield. The president, countermanding standard Secret Service procedure, had refused to take off until he knew whether Bobby's injury was serious. When he was informed that it was life-threatening, he insisted, with some vociferous assistance from his mother, on diverting the helicopter to the nearest trauma center, where his own blood type had been stockpiled in case of emergency.
During the flight, Bobby could hardly breathe despite the oxygen mask Angela held in place for him. As it turned out, Gerald Gerrard's bullet, which had gone through Bobby's right arm and lodged in the muscle of his chest wall, was of far less immediate concern than the punctured lung from his fractured rib.
When someone in the emergency room had asked, “Who's the next of kin?” Angela had stepped forward and said, “I'm his wife,” so adamantly that several heads turned in her direction. That was probably her sole moment of clarity for the next forty-eight hours, the moment she had known for certain that she would always be Bobby's wife, no matter what.
She'd stayed with him constantly the next two days until his condition stabilized, refusing to return to D.C. for a debriefing on the assassination attempt even if it meant her job. And the few times she nodded off to sleep, she woke to find Mrs. Riordan there, holding Bobby's hand, whispering encouragement to him, keeping watch while she kept concerned agents and nosy reporters at bay.
Outside of her own debriefing by agents, all the president's mother would say on the subject of Gerald Gerrard was, “There's no fool like an old fool,” but Angela knew the woman was devastated by the turn of events. Her beau had used her to try to assassinate the president, her son. The headless, handless corpse in Boston had been positively identified as Gerald Du-Maurier Gerrard, and the professor turned out to be an ultra-right-wing fanatic named Donald Elvin Paste, who'd been arrested numerous times for impersonating medical doctors or academics or officers of the law, and who'd been threatening the president, among others, for years.
As for her longtime nemesis, Bootsie, the former belle of Hassenfeld, Mrs. Riordan seemed to blame herself for encouraging the woman's vengeful behavior over the years, and was saddened to hear that in the opinion of the doctors who examined her, it was the recurrence of the tumor in her brain that had probably contributed to Bootsie's ultimate act of vengeance. Mrs. Riordan made certain she was as comfortable as possible in the hospital ward at the federal penitentiary in Marion, where Bootsie was likely to remain until she died.
“There it is,” Doug said now, pointing to the plane that was just touching down on a north-south runway. “See, Angela. I told you he wouldn't be late for his own wedding.”
“The wedding,” she muttered, looking down at the ivory satin suit she'd had to buy in such a rush. There hadn't even been time for alterations, so the sleeves lapped over her knuckles when her arms relaxed. But who was relaxed?
This renewal of their marriage vows was Crazy Daisy's harebrained scheme, her way of thanking her Robert for his courageous sacrifice. And Bobby was either too weak to protest, or else he was in collusion with Mrs. Riordan in her plot to reunite the two of them permanently as soon as Bobby was released from the hospital.
Probably everybody thought she'd change her mind at the last minute and take off for L.A. and Rod Bishop. But that wasn't likely to happen. When she'd finally gotten through to him in Mexico last week to tell him she was moving back to Washington and wouldn't be seeing him anymore, before she could even say a word, Rod had broken down in tears—the wimp!—and confessed that he'd fallen for his leading lady.
The ceremony for the renewal of their vows was set for three o'clock in the Rose Garden, replete now with hundreds of potted white mums and asters. Her parents and an untold number of siblings were already there, she was sure, with their pockets crammed with tissues and white rice.
“This is just ridiculous,” Angela said, shoving up the sleeves of her jacket as the Lear Jet taxied closer. “We're already married.”
Doug lit another cigarette. “Well, hell. I guess it never hurts to tighten the noose a little every now and then,” he said.
Bobby didn't remember being nervous before their first wedding, but maybe that was because he and Billy had drained a little silver flask of vodka ten minutes before the ceremony. Or maybe it was because it had seemed like just the three of them—Bobby and Angela and Billy—versus the crying Callifanos. Or maybe it was just because he had been three years younger and believed that everything lasted forever. He knew better now.
He really didn't want to do this. He was still walking around in a haze from the pain meds he had to take. His patience was down to about one-ply, with the press that wanted to glorify both him and Angela, to turn them into poster children for the Secret Service, and with the powers that be at the agency, for encouraging them to do it.
All he really wanted to do was get away for a while with Ange, but he was going through with
this wedding because he knew it was important to Daisy Riordan. For some reason she had appointed herself their personal Cupid. She'd spent hours at his bedside, using his cell phone to plan the ceremony, haranguing people all over D.C. It seemed to take her mind off Bootsie and the professor. It might, he thought, be her only way of coming to grips with her own dashed dreams, the ones she refused to discuss. Bobby knew the name of that tune. The one that had no lyrics. He'd practically written it himself.
“You should have waited to put your tuxedo on once we were here, Robert.” Mrs. Riordan was clucking her tongue and fiddling with his lapels as they waited to exit the Treasury Department's plane. “Your jacket is all wrinkled.”
“Then it matches my disposition,” he said.
Her eyes widened perceptibly. “You're not nervous, are you? Or apprehensive?”
“Who me? Nah. I'm used to saying my marriage vows in front of the president of the United States, the First Lady, the director of the Secret Service, and my in-laws. It doesn't bother me one bit.”
She got huffy. “Well, if I had thought for one moment that this would be the least bit stressful for you, I—”
“You would have done exactly what you did,” Bobby said, grinning. He tipped her soft chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze. “I appreciate it, Mrs. Riordan. So does Angela. It means a lot to both of us. Thank you.”
“Well, you both mean a great deal to me,” she said, giving one then the other of his lapels a good tug just before a dark scowl crossed over her face. “Dammit.”
“What?” Bobby asked.
“Oh, nothing. It's just that I was thinking that when I return to Hassenfeld, the Itos will be back from their cruise. I'm not sure I want those people bowing and scraping around me all the time.”
“Move to Washington,” he said.
“I can't do that.”
“Why not? There's nothing to keep you in Illinois anymore, unless you're planning to visit your pal Bootsie in the slammer.” He shrugged. “Besides, it'd be nice having you close.”
“Really?” A little more light returned to her eyes.
“Sure. Plus, arguing with you would be a nice break from arguing with my wife,” he said, adding a teasingly deferential “ma'am.”
Daisy Riordan smiled as if she'd been doing it all her life. “I just might do that, Robert.”
“Oh, don't let me go just yet,” Angela murmured in the back of the limousine when Bobby broke their kiss and started to disentangle her from his arms.
“There's plenty more for later,” he said. “I've got to straighten out my shoulder, babe. It's been acting up on me a little.”
Angela carefully drew away, knowing that when Bobby said a little, it probably meant a lot. “What can I do? Anything?” she asked, already deciding that one thing she was going to do was cook outrageously fattening meals, so he'd put back some of the weight he had lost in the hospital.
He leaned back against the door and let out a long sigh. “Marry me,” he said. “Again.”
“Okay. But other than that?”
“Let's see. Keep your father from killing me with one of those bear hugs of his this afternoon.”
“I've already warned him,” she said. “And I've also informed him that if he starts boo-hooing, I'm going to stop the ceremony dead in its tracks.”
He reached for her hand. “Thanks for doing this, Ange. It means a lot to Mrs. Riordan.”
“She looks happier than the last time I saw her.”
“She'll be fine. She might move to Washington.”
Angela laughed. “What? Leave beautiful Horsefeathers, Illinois, for this?” She gestured toward the Washington Monument poking up in the distance.
“Well, now that Bootsie's gone, she needs somebody who's not afraid to twit her a little.”
“And that would be you.”
He nodded. “I think I'll pass on the orange hair, though.”
“Oh, I don't know. It'd go great with the tattoo.”
The sweetest, saddest smile curved across his mouth. “I've been thinking about Billy these past two weeks. Let's go out to Arlington tomorrow, Ange. Maybe take some flowers.”
Angela tried not to look as surprised as she felt. Actually, she was stunned. Not once since his brother's funeral had Bobby been back to visit Billy's grave. She'd had to go alone.
“I'd like that,” she said. “You've never—”
“Yeah. I know. I couldn't.”
His gaze cut away from hers for a moment, a long moment during which Angela's heart held absolutely still. She could hardly breathe. If he didn't look back … If Bobby continued to withhold … Oh, God. If the big brick wall was going up again …
But then his gaze returned. Warm. Steady. Open. “I couldn't go before, Ange,” he said. “It hurt too goddamned much. But I'm ready now.”
Yes. Oh, yes. Angela's heart resumed its happy beat.
The Rose Garden was almost as lovely in October as it was in June, but unfortunately the timing of events had been out of Daisy Riordan's control. William's staff had done a lovely job on extremely short notice, although personally Daisy would have interspersed lavender or yellow asters among all the pots of white chrysanthemums, if not for variety's sake, then to avoid a certain snow-blind effect from bright October sunshine on so many white petals.
The string quartet was superb, and when they segued from Mozart to Lohengrin, Daisy patted William's hand as he sat beside her.
“Good job,” she said.
“Why, thank you. Mother.”
He looked so stunned that Daisy wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. It still amazed her that she was capable of tears, and that shedding them seemed to make her feel better rather than worse. “Don't be so shocked, William. Haven't I ever told you how enormously proud of you I am?”
“No, Mother. You haven't.”
“Well, I just did.” She patted his hand again. “Your father would be proud, as well, dear.”
She turned then and craned her neck to see Angela and Robert walking together down the white canvas aisle toward the mum-bedecked archway where the chaplain of the Senate awaited them. They looked so happy. Robert looked a bit thin, but Angela would no doubt soon be staffing him with green-speckled egg salad and her peculiar tuna concoction.
Daisy glanced at the bride's side of the aisle, crammed with dozens of teary-eyed Callifanos. She hoped she could hear the service over their wet histrionics. And she hoped, most of all, that Robert would be gratified that on the groom's side of the aisle—in place of his derelict parents and his deceased brother—sat the president of the United States, the First Lady, the director of the Secret Service along with many of his fellow agents, and one very grateful and affectionate old lady.
Now, no sooner had the chaplain intoned, “Dearly beloved,” than a chorus of wet sniffles rang out on the bride's side.
Daisy shot the Callifanos a fearsome glare, but it didn't do any good.
She could barely hear Robert's reply to “… as long as you both shall live?” And when it was Angela's turn to respond, her relatives set up such a caterwauling that Daisy was tempted to pelt them with a handful of rice. She very well might have if William hadn't smiled at her and warmly, firmly clasped her hand.
“Nice service,” Doug said, standing near a tiered bank of mums at the edge of the crowd, lighting up as he and Bobby watched the smoothly efficient White House staff set up tables for the supper that was to follow the ceremony.
Bobby laughed. “You mean you could actually hear it over all the caterwauling?”
“Those people cry a lot,” Doug said with a bemused shake of his head. “What is that? An Italian deal?”
“Beats me,” Bobby said.
They stood there a while, Doug fulfilling his nicotine requirements and Bobby taking a little break from the embraces of his in-laws. He kept thinking he ought to be putting a little pressure on Doug about his reassignment to a desk here in Washington on counterfeit detail, letting him and everybody else in the agenc
y know that he wanted to get back on protective duty as soon as he could pass the physical. But there was something else bothering him even more.
“Ange looks great, doesn't she?” he said.
After Doug gave a nod of approval, Bobby added, “Has she said anything to you about the shooting?”
Special Agent Doug Coulter blew out a long, thin stream of smoke. “Nope. That was some shooting, by the way.”
“I wouldn't know,” Bobby answered almost petulantly. “She won't talk about it. Not to me, at least.”
“It's only been two weeks,” Doug said calmly. “These things take time, Bobby. You know that.”
He did know that, Bobby told himself, at some level of consciousness. The problem was, he didn't seem to be operating on his usual cool and unemotional planes lately. If he really let himself think about their current situation—his and Angela's—the irony of it was almost laughable.
Bobby Holland, the Iron Man, was about to move to a wimpy desk job while his wife had just executed, literally, a perfect head shot that was the talk of the agency, only she didn't want to talk about it, wouldn't let him help her work out her feelings about having killed a man.
Jesus. No wonder she'd been so lonely after Billy died. Not only had Bobby refused to speak about Billy, but he knew now he'd denied his wife the comfort she needed that only he could give. That wouldn't happen again.
The president gave them a lovely toast, Angela thought, even though William Riordan's toasts always had the slight suggestion of a campaign speech about them. When Doug raised his champagne glass in their direction and repeated what he'd said to her earlier about the benefits of an occasional tightening of the marriage noose, all the guests laughed and applauded.
Her father's toast, predictably, had been too long and too wet, causing Bobby to squirm in his chair, but Angela loved every tear-drenched second of it. Amazingly enough, however, it didn't bring a flood of tears to her own eyes.
