by Sandra Brown
“My, my. Cranky, aren’t we?”
He was horny and lusting for an unfaithful wife. The unfaithfulness he might forgive, eventually, but not the other. Never the other.
“Did you see Carole?” Eddy asked, guessing the source of Tate’s dark mood.
“Yes.”
“Did you give her the statement to read?”
“Yes. Know what she did?”
“Told you to shove it?”
“Essentially. She tore it in half.”
“I wrote it for her own good.”
“Tell that to her yourself.”
“The last time I told her something for her own good, she called me an asshole.”
“She fell just short of spelling that out tonight.”
“Whether she believes it or not, meeting the press for the first time since the crash is going to be a bitch, even on somebody as tough as Carole. Their curiosity alone will have them whipped into a frenzy.”
“I told her that, but she resents getting unasked-for advice and having words put in her mouth.”
“Well,” Eddy said, rubbing his neck tiredly, “don’t worry about it until you have to. She’ll probably do fine.”
“She seems confident that she will.” Tate took a sip of his drink, then rolled the tumbler between his palms as he watched a moth making suicidal dives toward one of the spotlights in the shrubbery. “She’s…”
Eddy leaned forward. “She’s what?”
“Hell, I don’t know.” Tate sighed. “Different.”
“How so?”
For starters, she tasted different, but he didn’t tell his friend that. “She’s more subdued. Congenial.”
“Congenial? Sounds to me like she pitched a temper tantrum tonight.”
“Yeah, but this is the first one. The crash and everything she’s been through since then have sobered her up, I think. She looks younger, but she acts more mature.”
“I’ve noticed that. Understandable, though, isn’t it? Carole’s suddenly realized that she’s mortal.” Eddy stared at the terrazzo tiles between his widespread feet. “How, uh, how are personal things between the two of you?” Tate shot him a hot, fierce glance. “If it’s none of my business, just say so.”
“It’s none of your business.”
“I know what happened in Fort Worth last week.”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“The woman, Tate.”
“There were a lot of women around.”
“But only one invited you to her house after the rally. At least, only one that I know of.”
Tate rubbed his forehead. “Jesus, doesn’t anything escape your attention?”
“Not where you’re concerned. Not until you’re elected senator.”
“Well, rest easy. I didn’t go.”
“I know that.”
“So what’s the point of bringing it up?”
“Maybe you should have.”
Tate barked a short laugh of surprise.
“Did you want to?”
“Maybe.”
“You did,” Eddy said, answering for him. “You’re human. Your wife’s been incapacitated for months, and even before then—”
“You’re out of line, Eddy.”
“Everybody in the family knows that the two of you weren’t getting along. I’m only stating the obvious. Let’s be frank.”
“You be frank. I’m going to bed.”
Eddy caught his arm before he could stand up. “For God’s sake, don’t get mad at me and go off half-cocked. I’m trying to do you a favor here.” He waited for several moments, giving Tate time to contain his anger.
“All I’m saying is that you’ve been doing without for a long time,” Eddy said calmly. “The deprivation has got you uptight and edgy, and that’s no good for anybody. If all it takes to get you happy again is a roll in the hay, let me know.”
“And you’ll do what?” Tate asked dangerously. “Pimp?”
Eddy looked disappointed in him. “There are ways to arrange it discreetly.”
“Tell that to Gary Hart.”
“He wasn’t smart.”
“And you are?”
“Damn right I am.”
“Do you know what Dad would think if he heard you making me this offer?”
“He’s an idealist,” Eddy said dismissively. “Nelson really believes in motherhood and apple pie. Morality is his middle name. I, on the other hand, am a realist. We clean up pretty, but underneath our affectations, man is still an animal.
“If you need to get laid and your wife isn’t accommodating, you get laid by somebody else.” After his crude summation, Eddy gave an eloquent shrug. “In your situation, Tate, a little marital infidelity would be healthy.”
“What makes you so sure I’m in desperate need of getting laid?”
Eddy smiled as he came to his feet. “I’ve watched you in action, remember? You’ve got that tension around your mouth that says you haven’t gotten off lately. I recognize the black scowl. You might be running for public office, but you’re still Tate Rutledge. Your cock doesn’t know that it’s expected to be a good little boy until you get elected.”
“I’m investing my future in this election, Eddy. You know that. I’m about to realize my ambition to go to Washington as a senator. Do you think I’d risk that dream on twenty minutes of marital infidelity?”
“No, I guess not,” Eddy said with a rueful sigh. “I was only trying to help you out.”
Tate stood and offered a crooked smile. “The next thing you’re going to say is, what are friends for?”
Eddy chuckled. “Something that trite? Are you kidding?”
They headed toward the door leading into the main part of the house. Tate companionably rested his arm across Eddy’s shoulders. “You’re a good friend.”
“Thanks.”
“But Carole was right about one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“You are an asshole.”
Laughing together, they entered the house.
Fourteen
Avery slid on a pair of sunglasses.
“I think it would be better not to wear them,” Eddy told her. “We don’t want it to look like we’re hiding something unsightly.”
“All right.” She removed the sunglasses and pocketed them in the raw silk jacket, which matched her pleated trousers. “Do I look okay?” she nervously asked Tate and Eddy.
Eddy gave her a thumbs-up sign. “Smashing.”
“Lousy pun,” Tate remarked with a grin.
Avery ran her hand over the short hair at the back of her skull. “Does my hair…?”
“Very chic,” Eddy said. Then he clapped his hands together and rubbed them vigorously. “Well, we’ve kept the baited hounds at bay long enough. Let’s go.”
Together, the three of them left her room for the last time and walked down the hallway toward the lobby. Good-byes to the staff had already been said, but good-luck wishes were called out to them as they passed the nurses’ station.
“A limo?” Avery asked when they reached the tinted glass facade of the building. The horde of reporters couldn’t yet see them, but she could see outside. A black Cadillac limousine was parked at the curb with a uniformed chauffeur standing by.
“So both of us would be free to protect you,” Eddy explained.
“From what?”
“The crush. The driver’s already stowed your things in the trunk. Go to the mike, say your piece, politely decline to field any questions, then head for the car.”
He looked at her a moment, as though wanting to make certain his instructions had sunk in, then turned to Tate. “You can take a couple of questions if you want to. Gauge how friendly they are. As long as it’s comfortable, milk it for all it’s worth. If it gets sticky, use Carole as your excuse to cut it short. Ready?”
He went ahead to open the door. Avery looked up at Tate. “How do you abide his bossiness?”
“That’s what he�
�s being paid for.”
She made a mental note not to criticize Eddy. In Tate’s estimation, his campaign manager was above reproach.
Eddy was holding the door for them. Tate encircled her elbow and nudged her forward. The reporters and photographers had been a clamoring, squirming mass moments before. Now an expectant hush fell over them as they waited for the senatorial candidate’s wife to emerge after months of seclusion.
Avery cleared the doorway and moved to the microphone as Eddy had instructed her to. She looked like Carole Rutledge. She knew that. It was remarkable to her that the charade hadn’t been detected by those closest to Carole, even her husband. Of course, none had reason to doubt that she was who she was supposed to be. They weren’t looking for an impostor, and therefore, they didn’t see one.
But as she approached the microphone, Avery was afraid that strangers might discern what intimates hadn’t. Someone might rise above the crowd, aim an accusatory finger at her, and shout, “Impostor!”
Therefore, the spontaneous burst of applause astonished her. It took her, Tate, and even Eddy, who was always composed, by complete surprise. Her footsteps faltered. She glanced up at Tate with uncertainty. He smiled that dazzling, all-American hero smile at her and it was worth all the pain and anguish she had suffered since the crash. It boosted her confidence tremendously.
She graciously signaled for the applause to cease. As it tapered off, she said a timid thank-you. Then, clearing her throat, giving a slight toss of her head, and moistening her lips with her tongue, she began reciting her brief, prepared speech.
“Thank you, ladies and gentleman, for being here to welcome me back after my long hospitalization. I wish to publicly extend my sympathy to those who lost loved ones in the dreadful crash of AireAmerica Flight 398. It’s still incredible to me that my daughter and I survived such a tragic and costly accident. I probably wouldn’t have, had it not been for the constant support and encouragement of my husband.”
The last line had been her addition to Eddy’s prepared speech. Boldly, she slipped her hand into Tate’s. After a moment’s hesitation, which only she was aware of, he gave her hand a gentle squeeze.
“Mrs. Rutledge, do you hold AireAmerica responsible for the crash?”
“We can’t comment until the investigation is completed and the results have been announced by the NTSB,” Tate said.
“Mrs. Rutledge, do you plan to sue for damages?”
“We have no plans to pursue litigation at this time.” Again, Tate answered for her.
“Mrs. Rutledge, do you remember saving your daughter from the burning wreckage?”
“I do now,” she said before Tate could speak. “But I didn’t at first. I responded to survival instinct. I don’t remember making a conscious decision.”
“Mrs. Rutledge, at any point during the reconstructive procedure on your face, did you doubt it could be done?”
“I had every confidence in the surgeon my husband selected.”
Tate leaned into the mike to make himself heard above the din. “As you might guess, Carole is anxious to get home. If you’ll excuse us, please.”
He ushered her forward, but the crowd surged toward them. “Mr. Rutledge, will Mrs. Rutledge be going with you on the campaign trail?” A particularly pushy reporter blocked their path and shoved a microphone into Tate’s face.
“A few trips for Carole have been scheduled. But there will be many times when she’ll feel it’s best to stay at home with our daughter.”
“How is your daughter, Mr. Rutledge?”
“She’s well, thank you. Now, if we could—”
“Is she suffering any aftereffects of the crash?”
“What does your daughter think of the slight alterations in your appearance, Mrs. Rutledge?”
“No more questions now, please.”
With Eddy clearing a path for them, they made their way through the obstinate crowd. It was friendly, for the most part, but even so, being surrounded by so many people gave Avery a sense of suffocation.
Up till now, she’d always been on the other side, a reporter poking a microphone at someone in the throes of a personal crisis. The reporter’s job was to get the story, get the sound bite that no one else got, take whatever measures were deemed necessary. Little consideration was ever given to what it was like on the other side of the microphone. She’d never enjoyed that aspect of the job. Her fatal mistake in broadcasting hadn’t arisen from having too little sensitivity, but from having too much.
From the corner of her eye she spotted the KTEX logo stenciled on the side of a Betacam. Instinctively, she turned her head in that direction. It was Van!
For a split second she forgot that he was supposed to be a stranger to her. She came close to calling out his name and waving eagerly. His pale, thin face and lanky ponytail looked wonderfully familiar and dear! She longed to throw herself against his bony chest and hug him hard.
Thankfully, her face remained impassive. She turned away, giving no sign of recognition. Tate ushered her into the limo. Once inside the backseat and screened by the tinted glass, she looked out the rear window. Van, like all the others, was shoving his way through the throng, video camera riding atop his shoulder, his eye glued to the viewfinder.
How she missed the newsroom, with its ever-present pall of tobacco smoke, jangling telephones, squawking police radios, and clacking teletypes. The constant ebb and flow of reporters, cameramen and gofers seemed to Avery to be light-years in the past.
As the limo pulled away from the address that had been her refuge for weeks, she experienced an overwhelming homesickness for Avery Daniels’s life. What had happened to her apartment, her things? Had they been boxed up and parceled out to strangers? Who was wearing her clothes, sleeping on her sheets, using her towels? She suddenly felt as though she’d been stripped and violated. But she had made an irrevocable decision to leave Avery Daniels indefinitely dead. Not only her career, but her life, and Tate’s, were at stake.
Beside her, Tate adjusted himself into the seat. His leg brushed hers. His elbow grazed her breast. His hip settled reassuringly against hers.
For the time being, she was where she wanted to be.
Eddy, sitting on the fold-down seat in front of her, patted her knee. “You did great, even on the ad libs. Nice touch, reaching for Tate’s hand that way. What’d you think, Tate?”
Tate was loosening his tie and unbuttoning his collar. “She did fine.” He wagged his finger at Eddy. “But I don’t like those questions about Mandy. What possible bearing does she have on the campaign issues or the election?”
“None. People are just curious.”
“Screw curious. She’s my daughter. I want her protected.”
“Maybe she’s too protected.” Avery’s husky voice sharply drew Tate’s eyes to her.
“Meaning?”
“Now that they’ve seen me,” she said, “they’ll stop pestering you with questions about me and concentrate on the important issues.”
During her convalescence, she had kept close tabs on his campaign by reading every newspaper available and watching television news. He had blitzed the primary election, but the real battle was still ahead of him. His opponent in November would be the incumbent senior senator, Rory Dekker.
Dekker was an institution in Texas politics. For as long as Avery remembered, he had been a senator. It was going to be a David-and-Goliath contest. The incredible odds in Dekker’s favor, coupled with Tate’s audacious courage against such an impressive foe, had sparked more interest in this election than any in recent memory.
On nearly every newscast there was at least a fifteen-second mention of the senate race, and, as Avery well knew, even fifteen seconds was an enviable amount of time. But while Dekker wisely used his time to state his platform, Tate’s allotment had been squandered on questions regarding Carole’s medical progress.
“If we don’t keep Mandy under such lock and key,” she said carefully, “their curiosity over her will so
on abate. Hopefully, they’ll get curious about something else, like your relief plan for the farmers who have been foreclosed on.”
“She might have a point, Tate.” Eddy eyed her suspiciously, but with grudging respect.
Tate’s expression bordered between anger and indecision. “I’ll think about it,” was all he said before turning his head to stare out the window.
They rode in silence until they reached campaign headquarters. Eddy said, “Everybody’s anxious to see you, Carole. I’ve asked them not to gape, but I can’t guarantee that they won’t,” he warned her as she alighted with the chauffeur’s assistance. “I think the goodwill would go a long way if you could stick around for a while.”
“She will.” Giving her no choice, Tate took her arm and steered her toward the door.
His chauvinism raised the hair on the back of her neck, but she was curious to see his campaign headquarters, so she went peaceably. As they approached the door, however, her stomach grew queasy with fear. Each new situation was a testing ground, a mine field that she must navigate gingerly, holding her breath against making a wrong move.
The doors admitted them into a place of absolute chaos. The volunteer workers were taking calls, making calls, sealing envelopes, opening envelopes, stapling, unstapling, standing up, sitting down. Everyone was in motion. After the silence and serenity of the clinic, Avery felt as though she had just been thrust into an ape house.
Tate removed his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. Once he was spotted, each volunteer stopped his particular chore in favor of speaking to him. It was apparent to Avery that everyone in the room looked to him as a hero and was dedicated to helping him win the election.
It also became clear to her that Eddy Paschal’s word was considered law, because while the volunteers looked at her askance and spoke polite hellos, she wasn’t subjected to avidly curious stares. Feeling awkward and uncertain over what was expected of her, she tagged along behind Tate as he moved through the room. In his element, he emanated contagious confidence.
“Hello, Mrs. Rutledge,” one young man said to her. “You’re looking extremely well.”
“Thank you.”
“Tate, this morning the governor issued a statement congratulating Mrs. Rutledge on her full recovery. He commended her courage, but he called you, and I paraphrase, a bleeding-heart liberal that Texans should be wary of. He cautioned the voting public not to let sympathy for Mrs. Rutledge influence their votes in November. How do you want to respond?”
