PHOEBE WAS STILL WORRYING about Sam Pettit’s comments when they got back to her hotel room. “What do you think she’ll say in the paper? I guess it was pretty clear that I had no idea what she was talking about. Do you suppose she’ll report that Tommy lied? Will that ruin your campaign?”
Adam dropped into the armchair, rubbing his tired eyes. “I d-doubt it. N-no way to know until it h-h-happens. T-take your own advice. R-relax.”
She sat down in the other chair. “I’d hate to cause you trouble.”
“You already h-have.” He softened the truth with a grin. “L-let’s m-move on.”
“Like you’ve been so easy to deal with, yourself. Are you going to read this again?”
“D-do I have to?” Her glare answered that question.
But three times through was as much as he could manage. “I’m d-done.”
“I agree. You must admit you’ve made a lot of progress. You’ve got the problem words down to mostly those starting with Bs and Ns. Maybe we can find synonyms for some of them, at least.” She drew her chair closer to the table, laid the pages down and began to go through the speech again.
Adam groaned. “Phoebe. C-call it a n-n-night.”
“I will in just a minute.”
He closed his eyes. “Wake me up when you’re d-done.”
Those were the last words he said for a long time. He opened his eyes once, twice, and saw Phoebe still working. The third time, she’d leaned back in the chair and put her glasses in her lap. Her eyes were closed.
“Phoebe,” he murmured. Or thought he did. “I should g-go.”
The next time Adam opened his eyes, sunlight streamed through the window. Church bells rang in a clear, bright September Sunday morning.
He’d spent Saturday night in Phoebe Moss’s hotel room.
And all he had to show for it was a crick in his neck from sleeping in a damn armchair.
MONDAY DAWNED HAZY AND hot, as was usual for Labor Day in New Skye. Adam reached the rally site—the lot he’d planned to build the housing project on—at ten, but Tommy had been working since sunup, supervising the raising of tents, the arrangement of barbecue ovens, the placement of beer kegs and lemonade stands and ice cream carts.
“Hey, man,” he called as Adam approached. “This is gonna be a terrific party. We’ll get you elected on the taste of the barbecue alone.”
“If the b-barbecue m-makes the d-difference, they should v-vote for the c-cook.” Adam grinned. “You’ve d-done a great job, though. I like the balloons.”
“So will the kids.” He looked Adam up and down. “You look good. Folks will like the suit, and you can take off the jacket soon enough, loosen the tie—you’ll come across as serious about the job, but just a regular guy like everybody else. Remember to kiss all the babies and give all the girls that killer smile.”
“R-right.” The thought of kisses reminded him of what he had to tell Tommy. “G-got a minute? We n-need to talk.”
“Sure.” As he turned toward Adam, a worker came running up. “Mr. Crawford, we’ve got a problem with the mikes. Ed sent me over to get you.”
“Gotta have the mikes. I’ll get with you later, DeVries.”
“Tommy—”
He was gone before Adam could hold him back. From that moment on, events snowballed. Tommy didn’t get another free moment before noon, when the crowds started showing up for free food, free drinks and live music from one of the most popular local bands.
Adam worked the crowd in good political style. He and Phoebe had practiced “Hey, how are you?” Sunday afternoon in between run-throughs of the speech. The button on his shirt gave his name so people knew him without an introduction. One of the cruelest jokes of his childhood had been having to say “DeVries.”
“You’ve got a motley crew here.” His brother joined him in the shade of an oak tree. “Have a beer.”
“Thanks.” Adam took a long, cold drink. “I’d say we g-got a c-cross-section of the city, more or less.” He looked Tim up and down. “You’re here as the Old S-South, right? S-straight out of Faulkner?”
Tim adjusted the set of his white Panama hat, brushed an invisible speck off his creased white pants. “Somebody has to uphold the family pride.” When Adam didn’t say anything, his brother winced. “Hell, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. Sorry—you do know I’m damn proud of you taking on the whole town, don’t you?”
“Yeah.” He hadn’t expected his parents to show up, but he’d hoped. “Theresa here somewhere?”
“Haven’t seen her. But who’s that?” Tim snapped to attention.
Following his line of sight, Adam saw a petite figure in sinfully cropped shorts and a top showing more skin than fabric. “Walking tr-trouble, that’s who. S-Samantha P-Pettit. A reporter.”
“Excuse me. I have an important piece of news to impart.”
Adam managed to get hold of his brother’s arm before he escaped. “C-careful what you s-say. She’s already n-nosing around, tr-trying to tr-trip me up.”
Tim nodded. “Sure. I’m not planning to talk about you. Or talk much at all.” He grinned wickedly and set off on his quarry’s trail.
“That should be interesting to watch.” Dixon Bell stood at Adam’s shoulder. “The perpetual bachelor and an ambitious woman. My money’s on her.”
“I’m not a b-betting man.” Tim had caught up with Samantha and engaged her in intense conversation—a conversation being observed carefully, Adam noted, by none other than his campaign manager. Tommy and the reporter? What a complication that would be.
“This is a nice site,” Dixon said, looking around them at the grassy, tree-dotted acres. “You were going to put the housing project here, weren’t you?”
“That was the p-p-plan.”
“Seems like a good place for today’s announcement, then.”
Adam finished his beer. “S-speaking of which, g-guess I’ll g-get to work.”
Dixon clapped him on the back. “Good luck. You’ve got my vote.”
“Thanks. I got your wedding invitation, too. Already mailed the reply card.”
His friend’s grin was the widest Adam had ever seen. “Three weeks and counting.”
“You’ve b-been a p-patient m-man.”
“Kate’s worth every second of the wait.”
Envying Dixon Bell more than he really should, Adam returned to campaigning. More handshakes, more baby kisses—and little-girl kisses, and not-so-little girl kisses—some with photographs, some not. The blazing afternoon wore on and the starch steamed out of his shirt. And he still hadn’t found Phoebe.
At four o’clock, the speeches began. Judge Taylor, a pillar of the community who happened to be the DeVries’s next-door neighbor, took the podium to speak about honesty in government. Pete Mitchell, a state trooper and Dixon Bell’s future brother-in-law, talked about troubled teens and the need for community programs to keep them off of the streets. Theresa, looking her usual cool, controlled self in a sleeveless blue dress, dealt with more personal issues, giving some of Adam’s background, his schooling, his career as a builder in New Skye.
Then it was his turn. Enthusiastic applause rolled over him as he stepped up on the stage. A sea of expectant faces spread out at his feet. His throat locked. He clenched his right hand, and panic set in. This would not work. There were no words in his head and the paper before him blurred.
Then he looked down. Directly in front of him stood Phoebe, with her smiling gaze fixed on his face, her hands clasped lightly in front of her. Her marvelous hair was drawn back by a band but hung loose around her shoulders, with a strand or two lifted by the breeze. In her gray eyes, he found the courage he needed.
Adam took a deep breath, and another. “G-good afternoon,” he said, leaning a little toward the microphone. “I hope you’ve had your f-fill of b-barbecue. If n-not, b-be sure to get some more. There’s plenty for everybody.”
He stopped while the crowd whistled, shouted and clapped hands. “Not to mention the b-beer.
B-But d-don’t d-drive if you’ve b-been d-drinking. We will have a couple of troopers on d-duty, checking folks out as they leave, for safety’s sake.”
More noise. Adam held up his hand. “You’ve heard s-some g-good people talking about issues this town faces.” He glanced down at Phoebe, who nodded. “Now let me tell you what I think about those s-same issues.”
The stutter wasn’t completely gone. He got through the speech, though, more smoothly than he’d ever have believed possible. Nobody heckled, like in his nightmares, and nobody walked away while he spoke.
“As a b-businessman, I want honest government,” he told them finally. “As a resident of this f-fine town, I want responsive government. And as a citizen, I kn-know it’s my responsibility to vote for officials who will accomplish my goals. That’s why I ask you all to elect me, Adam D-DeVries, as mayor of New Skye on the first Tuesday in November!”
The applause was loud and long. Adam looked at Phoebe and grinned. She gave him the thumbs-up sign with both hands, grinning back.
Tommy came onto the stage, carrying another microphone. “Candidate DeVries is willing to take questions. Just form a line at this side of the stage.”
Adam hadn’t expected that addition to the program. The speech had gone well, though, so he felt confident enough to field at least a few off-the-cuff comments.
Police budget, schools, libraries…these topics he’d thought about, considered comments on. The dialogue with the audience went smoothly, as Tommy fielded the questions and repeated them into the mike for everyone to hear.
Last in line, though, was trouble with a capital T. Sam Pettit stepped up and, instead of allowing Tommy to announce the question, took the mike from his hand. Before he could grab it back, she stepped away.
“Candidate DeVries,” she began, “the voters are always interested in the backgrounds and personal lives of their elected officials. You’re unmarried, is that right?”
Adam remembered not to grip the sides of the podium, not to betray nerves. “Yes.”
“Not planning to get married?”
“When I meet the right woman.” He kept his eyes on Samantha, deliberately did not look at Phoebe. Or anyone else.
“Dating?”
“Running a b-business and running for mayor d-doesn’t leave much time for d-dates,” he said, and got a laugh.
“And yet you’ve been seen around town recently in the company of one woman. Ms. Phoebe Moss.”
A word crossed his mind that could not be said into the mike. “She’s a f-friend.”
“You visit her often at her farm out of town.”
“I l-like to get out in the c-country.”
Samantha Pettit paused dramatically. “And this past weekend, you were seen entering the Highlander Hotel with Ms. Moss late Saturday night. You were not registered in a separate room. And you didn’t leave until the middle of Sunday afternoon.”
The audience’s gasp was almost comical, like a cartoon sound effect. Tommy’s shocked face was not nearly so funny.
“While I realize these are personal matters,” Samantha continued, “the people of New Skye deserve to know what caliber of man wants to be their mayor. Do you have an explanation for these events, Mr. DeVries? Do you still maintain that Phoebe Moss is just ‘a friend’?”
Adam glanced at Phoebe, saw her standing wide-eyed, stiff, with her hands held palm to palm and her straight fingers pressed against her lips. She had never bargained for such exposure.
“M-M-Ms. P-Pettit, I—”
“There is an explanation, of course.” Tommy’s voice drowned Adam’s own. Adam faced him, wondering what the hell his campaign manager was about to do. They had agreed to keep the speech therapy as quiet as possible.
“And what would that explanation be?” Samantha turned to the man standing just above her.
“It’s quite simple, actually.” Tommy shrugged and grinned at the crowd, letting them in on the joke. “She’s his fiancée. Adam DeVries and Phoebe Moss are engaged to be married.”
CHAPTER SIX
ENGAGED TO BE MARRIED?
Phoebe squeezed her eyes shut, wishing, hoping, praying to disappear. Somebody was going to look very foolish in the next minute or two. Mostly likely, that somebody would be her.
The crowd noise had vanished, though whether due to the effect of Tommy’s announcement or just the roaring in her ears, she couldn’t be sure.
Impossible as it seemed, the situation then got worse. “Phoebe,” Tommy said, “why don’t you come on up and let us introduce you to the good people of New Skye?”
Yes, the fool would be herself.
She opened her eyes and looked for Adam. He had left the speaker’s stand and moved to the steps nearest where she stood. Holding out his hand, he waited for her to join him. Adam had decided to go along with Tommy’s lie.
If she protested, denied the engagement, Adam’s campaign would end today, this minute, his credibility with the voters destroyed. His business might suffer, as well, once word got around of this deception.
But what about her business…her life? What kind of commitment would she be making?
“Phoebe?” Adam’s voice came to her…a question, a plea.
She couldn’t resist. Waves of applause buffeted her as she climbed the steps and joined him on the stage. He bent his head and kissed her—or so it would have looked to the audience. In reality, he brought his lips close to hers and whispered, “Thank you.” Turning to the crowd, he held her close to him with one arm and waved with the other, grinning widely.
Tommy said, “The future Mrs. Adam DeVries.”
To Phoebe, the words sounded like the clang of a heavy iron door…the door to her new prison cell.
TOMMY DIDN’T SUPERVISE the takedown of the tents, the stage, the sound system. Instead, he stood under a tree at the back of the lot as Adam’s fury erupted over him.
Phoebe stood nearby. One part of her brain admired Adam’s overall fluency. In the torrent of words, he stuttered only occasionally and suffered few actual blocks.
Another part of her brain—or was it her heart?—wondered what was so terrible about being engaged to her, especially since the whole situation was make-believe. As Tommy had pointed out, the engagement could be ended after the election when she “decided,” based on the experience of the campaign, that life in politics was not her choice.
Nothing could be closer to the truth.
Adam, however, was not convinced. “Why the hell did you start taking questions, anyway? And why did you g-give Samantha Pettit an opportunity to n-nail me? You know that’s what she wants, she’s said so. She sat outside the hotel all night, stalking me, waiting to draw the worst possible c-conclusion. And you handed her the opportunity to dish it out. Are you so hot for her you c-can’t keep your head on straight?”
Tommy straightened up. With his fists jammed in his pockets and his shoulders squared, he looked formidable, even a little dangerous. “If I’d known there was something to hide—something else to hide—I would have been on my guard. It helps to be informed.”
“There isn’t anything to hide. Let’s publish the truth— Phoebe’s just a speech therapist helping me deal with the stutter. Get it out of the way, get on with the real issues.”
Just a speech therapist. Phoebe felt the words like an arrow slicing into her chest. Much as she wanted to, though, she’d already learned that she couldn’t expect to disappear from this situation.
So she let herself get mad. “I am not j-just anything,” she told Adam, stepping between him and Tommy. “I am not a p-problem to be solved, a l-l-liability to be dealt with, or a secret to be h-h-hidden away somewhere.”
Adam took a step back, his eyes wide. “Phoebe, I—”
“When you explained you w-wanted to k-k-keep your therapy c-confidential, I agreed because my cl-clients are nobody else’s business. I p-played along with the stupid charade this afternoon because I d-didn’t want to be embarrassed. I d-didn’t w-want anybody to be embar
rassed.”
She looked at Tommy, then back to Adam. “You need to g-get your t-t-temper under c-control. The mistake is made, and now the qu-qu-question is how best to handle it, not whose fault it was. P-put your male egos b-back where they b-belong and starting using your br-brains. C-c-call me when you’ve figured out what you want to d-do.”
Marching back toward the parking area, she blinked hard to keep the tears out of her eyes. How could she ever have imagined her new life would hurt her this much?
Getting involved, that was the problem. From the very first, she’d sensed that Adam DeVries threatened everything she valued, everything she’d worked to build for herself. Maybe he’d decide to tell the truth and dump her from the campaign effort altogether. They would never have to see each other again.
Heading out of town, Phoebe hoped this situation would work out for the best.
She just wasn’t sure anymore what the best would be.
THE TWO MEN WATCHED Phoebe’s green VW disappear into the twilight. Adam turned back to Tommy. “She d-deserved to b-be protected.”
“Agreed.” Tommy ran a hand over his face. “If I’d had the least idea Sam had that kind of ammunition, I’d have been more careful.”
“We b-both screwed up. B-bad.”
“We’ll fix it.” His natural Crawford optimism reasserted itself. “A little positive publicity will put us back in the driver’s seat.”
“I’m n-not talking about the c-campaign, dammit. We hurt Phoebe.” Adam headed for his truck. “I’m g-going to talk to her.”
“Good idea,” Tommy called after him. “I’ve got someone to track down, myself.”
He’d known Sam’s address for several months now—a nice town house community built with Adam’s usual attention to detail—but he’d never actually knocked on the door. Since it was after ten, he figured she would have filed her story and come home for the night.
The doorknob turned, and she peered at him one-eyed through the opening above the chain. “Tommy?”
“’Evening, Sam. Can I talk to you for a minute?”
The Last Honest Man Page 9
