She had just enough time to shower, change into fresh clothes, and hop a train to Lee's office. At two fifty-nine she found Millie Cusack hard at work at a computer terminal, the remnants of a McDonald's lunch at her right elbow. Not surprisingly for a Sunday, the offices were nearly empty of their dozen or so staffers. From an inner sanctum somewhere she heard a printer spewing out text.
"The senator called from the airport," the secretary explained. "He'll be here any minute. He asked that you kindly wait in his office," she said, holding open Lee's door.
A nice way of letting you get on with your work without any pestering from me, Emily thought, smiling as she was being led through.
The fact was, Millie Cusack was perfectly safe from Emily's scrutiny. Jim Whitewood was safe; their boss was safe; they all were safe. Emily was determined to walk Lee Alden through the easiest interview he'd ever had simply because she owed him, and after that it would be good-bye, Charlie.
She wandered around Lee's office, pausing for a long time before a gallery of framed and signed photographs of movers and shakers in government, some of them taken with Lee aboard a sailboat. A more personal collection of photos was arranged on his desk. The largest among them was a silver-framed family photo. Everyone was in it, including the two traveling husbands, including Nicole. Emily was about to pick it up for a closer look when she noticed, pressed under a glass paperweight, a silk turquoise flower petal. A flower petal from a sham psychic's hat. Jolted, she stared into the paperweight as if it were a crystal ball.
Why had he saved the petal? As a keepsake of their time together? As a trophy of her screwy scheme? On a whim? And did it matter, as long as he saved it at all? She was sitting on the edge of his desk, hovering over the photos and the paperweight, when Lee walked in. Naturally she felt like a spy and began making stupid apologies. But he was the one who seemed embarrassed, and that amazed and pleased her. It was a keepsake, then, she thought, her heart lifting.
Or was he just embarrassed by her pushiness? The women in his set probably sat when they were told to sit, whereas here she was, stopping just short of reading his mail. This was hopeless. In matters concerning Lee Alden her moral system was about as clear as peanut butter.
She sat in one of the wing chairs, set up her tape recorder with a "You don't mind, do you?," and took out her notepad. Lee seemed to take his cue from her and sat in the opposite chair, with no attempt at chitchat. The tension between them was thick enough to slice.
It did not look good. This was about as friendly as an international chess match. Here goes nothing, she thought, pressing the start button on her tape recorder.
"Senator, you've decided to run for a third term at a time when the public seems inclined to throw all the rascals out. Would you tell us why?"
"Well, for one thing," he answered with an utterly charming smile and a disarming shrug, "I ain't a rascal."
Interesting. From stony and remote he went to warm and engaging, all at the touch of a button. Damn. How could you ever trust someone this good?
"At the same time," he said in a more serious way, "I don't blame Americans for being fed up. They're not getting their money's worth. Unless we stop bickering and get moving, we deserve to be kicked out of government."
His hands came up in an eloquent stabbing gesture. "There's plenty of good legislation being proposed -- on overhauling our health care system, our banking structure, our social services. We just need to pass it. We've got to be willing to make hard choices."
"Any suggestions on how to do that?"
"I wish there were a simple answer. We need to free ourselves from pressure by special interests. The average incumbent gets almost half his money from PAC groups. Obviously we need to reform campaign spending. And it's time to limit our terms. We should give governing our best shot and then get out and let someone else try. That's for starters."
Without the benefit of notes he launched into a clear and concise list of proposals to streamline and reform government, backed up by so many statistics that Emily was grateful for the tape recorder winding its accurate way between them.
Good Lord. The man really does know his business, she thought after a very few minutes. And it had nothing to do with the ridiculous, undeniable attraction she was feeling for him. It was more to do with the fact that in an age of bombast and sneering, his was a voice of clear, sweet reason. Lee Alden was neither a knee-jerk liberal nor a pigheaded conservative. He was somewhere in between, and Emily couldn't help thinking that he was exactly what the Founding Fathers had in mind.
We could use ninety-nine more of him, she thought dreamily as he wrapped up a thoughtful and sympathetic response to her question about low-income housing.
He was leaning forward in his chair, driving his point home. "The fact is, residents know and care about the buildings they live in more than government officials do. The resident management experiment has been a success, and it deserves to be expanded."
He waited for the next query. None came. Emily had worked her way through her list of questions -- Stan Cooper would've called them soft lobs -- and now she was done. Unless, of course, she was willing to delve into the subject of the paranormal. She was not.
She flipped the cover back over her steno pad and gave him a half-apologetic look. "I'm afraid this is going to read like a paid political endorsement, Senator. That's how impressive a performance it was."
He looked surprisingly confused. "That's it?"
She nodded, but he wasn't satisfied. "No questions about my family, hobbies, favorite junk food, last book read?" He gave her a long, level look. "Nothing about my abiding interest in the otherworldly?"
Remember, keep it light. Keep it easy. "No, sir, no way. I don't even want to know your astrological sign," she said, pressing the stop button on the recorder. She backed up to his challenge and erased it. "Besides, I think the local tabloids have pretty much covered the personal side of your career."
"With a vengeance," he said ironically. He thought about it for a minute. "Thanks for the break," he said, standing and easing into one of his catlike stretches. "Does Stan Cooper know you're waiting in the wings for his job?"
She assumed he was being ironic and shook her head noncommittally.
"Stan and I go back to our childhood together," he added. "Has he ever told you that?"
"No," Emily said, surprised. Tight-lipped Stan had never said a word.
Lee walked over to the gallery of photos. "Yeah. His father was a charter captain on the Vineyard. Here's a picture of my father, my brother, and me aboard the Snapper Blue. That's Stan's father at the wheel, and there's Stan sitting on the bait box. We went fishing on the Blue every time my dad could get away from the mainland."
Emily came over for a closer look. It was an interesting tableau: the Alden clan, proudly posed with their catches of the day; Captain Cooper, proudly posed at the wheel of his powerboat; and Stan, a sulky look on his face, holding himself aloof from the happy group.
"He never did like the charter business," Lee said thoughtfully. "Too service-oriented, I'd guess. After his father died he sold the Snapper Blue, the house, all of it. I haven't seen him on the island in years."
It explained a lot. No, Stan wouldn't have thought much of dispensing bait or serving sandwiches to a couple of preppy teenagers his own age. Young Stan's look said it all too clearly: "Why them and not me?"
Emily shook her head. "I think he can hurt you politically."
"Stan? Why would he want to?"
She tapped the photo. "That's why," she said, and turned away to gather up her things.
But Lee took her by her shoulders and turned her to face him. "Why the concern for my political wellbeing, Emily? Why this protective surge?" When she said nothing he added, "I could use some answers, kiddo."
He was too near. She'd been careful to keep her distance, to keep the talk on a rational level. But now he'd crossed into the danger zone, the zone of the heart. Alarm bells were going off everywhere. Intruder
alert! Left shoulder! Right shoulder!
Her hands went up to his. Lifting them gently away, she said in a nearly steady voice, "You're the right man for the job. I don't want to see you blow it."
"Since when? What about the search for extra-terrestrial intelligence? What about the séances? I'm a flake, remember?"
"Nah," she answered, confused by his about-face. "I got that part all wrong." Why was he pushing her on this?
"You're patronizing me, Emily," he said in a suddenly dangerous tone. "I won't have it. Those weren't questions; those were cotton balls. I admit I was grateful just now for the reprieve. But I have to be able to face you after you walk out of here."
He went over to her tape recorder and pressed a button. "Ask the hard one. Ask the obvious one. Do I believe in ghosts?"
Her head was beginning to spin. What was he after? First he was grateful; now he wasn't. She needed time to think things through, and he wasn't letting her. He was pushing her, prodding her. Why? Why?
She spun on her heel like a cornered thing and faced him. "What are you doing? Why are you forcing this issue? Suppose I do ask you if you believe in ghosts? If you say yes, I'll have to nail you to the wall when I write this up. If you say no, we're back to the I'm-a-nut scenario. Why can't you just leave it alone?" she cried, beyond herself with frustration.
"I will if you will, goddammit!"
They weren't talking about the interview anymore, and she knew it. "I can't! He wouldn't let me if I wanted to!"
In three steps Lee had her in his grip; she'd never seen him so angry before. His breathing was fast, his voice hot and hard. "What would it take to knock you loose from this obsession of yours? What--?"
He stopped. Let go. Stared. She turned her head and saw what he saw: The lamp on his desk had begun to brighten and then to blind. Lee squinted and looked away, and so did she, filled with dread for the excruciating pain that was about to follow.
But the pain never came. The light dimmed and then went out. Lee blinked once, twice, and rubbed his eyes, no doubt trying to get the bright spots out from behind his eyelids.
"Give yourself a minute," Emily said. "It goes away." She tried to keep the note of obnoxious triumph from her voice, but it was impossible.
Lee walked over to the lamp and peered over its linen shade. "Bulb's burned out. Must've been a short."
"What! You're the nut here! What does it take--?"
"Come and look," he said, cutting her off from the road she was headed down. "The bulb's dark on top."
She began stomping toward the lamp but halted dead in her tracks three feet away.
Fergus was standing six inches from the senator.
It was absolutely shocking to her to see the two of them lined up side by side. Fergus was younger, shorter, more sparely built than Lee, but he was there, in full view. For a moment she thought quite seriously that she was going to die. Her chest constricted; there was a roaring in her head; her mouth went absolutely dry. She tried to say something but couldn't.
Fergus peered over the lampshade with Lee, then looked up at her with a beatific grin. "'GE,'" he cried, pointing to the bulb. "'We bring good things to life!'"
Emily stared wide-eyed at the ghost, then at Lee, who was at first baffled, then alarmed by her behavior. "What? Tell me!" he demanded.
He pivoted ninety degrees, putting him face-to-face with Fergus. The scowl on Lee's face was fierce.
Fergus wilted a little before it, but he held his ground. After a second or two his expression relaxed, then became almost insolent.
But Lee was staring into thin air. "Emily, if there's something here, describe it to me!" he implored.
Emily tried desperately to oblige. "He ... you..."
And then she fainted.
****
That's twice, Emily thought as she came to. She was lying on a small sofa, and her jaw was throbbing. She sat up, rubbing the sore spot. Lee was at his desk, pouring water from a thermal decanter into a glass. He brought it over and sat down beside her.
"Hurts?"
She nodded. "Who took a poke at me, you or him?"
"Go ahead, make jokes. You caught the claw foot of the wing chair when you fainted. Let's have a look." He took her jaw gently between his thumb and index finger and tilted it to one side. "Yep, you'll live. Have you eaten anything today?"
She ignored the question but did drain the glass of half its water. "I take it you didn't see a thing?"
He took the glass she handed to him. "I didn't see anything, no."
"But?"
Lee rubbed his eyes, then dragged his fingers down his face, stretching the facial muscles as exhausted people do. She wondered if he'd slept at all. He certainly hadn't shaved.
"But. I felt something not unlike the moment of Nicole's death, when I was in the hospital." He was frowning, deep in thought, struggling for the words. "I remember telling you I felt a kind of euphoric joy at the time. That wasn't quite accurate. There was an element of fear in it -- fearful joy, if there is such a thing."
He stared at the glass in his hand as if he were wondering how it got there. "But why the fear, I don't know. Was it because I was afraid the moment would end, or was it because I was afraid that I wasn't ready for what was happening to me?
"One thing I do know," he said, placing the glass carefully on a low table as if it were a precious goblet, "is ever since that moment in the hospital I've carried around a nagging feeling of guilt -- as if I failed Nicole somehow. As if I'd had the chance to cross over some Rubicon and be with her forever but had chosen to hang back. As if I should have loved her more.
His fingers came up to Emily's jaw, skimming the bruise so lightly that she hardly knew it. "I've never told this to anyone."
Emily wanted to comfort him; he looked so vulnerable. "I don't think you could have loved Nicole more than you did," she said. "I think you feel guilty the way we all feel guilty when we survive the death of someone close. The worst part is, we feel joy that we are still alive. And then we feel guilty because we feel that way. We can't help any of it, Lee. We're only human."
"That's how it was with your mother?" he ventured.
"Yes ... that's how it was."
He twined his fingers through hers. They sat without speaking for a while, and she felt closer to him than she'd ever felt before. But after a bit she became uneasy; what if he felt he'd said too much? She glanced nervously at the door. Millie would realize the interview should've been over by now.
She stood up. "Well!" she said awkwardly, straightening the folds of her cotton skirt. "Your family thinks of me as the guest who wouldn't stay, and now your staff will think of me as the reporter who wouldn't go. I should leave you to your work."
He looked startled by her abrupt move, but he scrambled politely to his feet. The smile on his face was ironic and tender. "My family figures you ran away for a perfectly good reason. But you're right about my staff; they're very schedule-oriented."
"Time to go, in that case." There it was again, that tick-tick-ticking clock. Whenever she was with him, she felt that she was on borrowed time. She scooped up her shoulder bag and began her march out.
"Whoa, hold on!" His arm shot out across her chest like a railroad gate. He was close enough for her to see the golden stubble on his cheeks. "My staff and I don't always agree," he explained, letting his fingertips trail across the top of her breasts before he let his arm fall. "What I'd like to know now is where do we go from here."
She was feeling the heat from his glancing caress, and as usual when he touched her, her body went surging ahead of her brain. He seemed to be waiting for an answer. But what was the question?
Where do we go from here? "I guess you run for Senate and I continue on my way. At least for now."
"Like two ships passing in the night? I don't think so, Emily. Not after this."
"Especially after this, Lee. Face it, you're not positive what happened here. Is there really any point to your getting further involved? The less you
know about Fergus, the better. Your press conferences will go a lot more smoothly."
"Look, I'll grant you, I'm still not altogether convinced what it is you're seeing. But it looks more and more like I've fallen for someone with rotten luck and not just a simple crackpot."
"Gee, you know how to make a girl feel good," she said ironically. But she was pleased -- her heart was pounding -- just because he said he'd fallen.
"You and your necklaces," he said with a helpless shake of his head. "Me and my séances. What a team."
He made a fist around the crystal of her necklace and drew her gently closer by its chain. Through a haze of longing she saw his mouth, full and skeptical, open slightly for the kiss. A shiver passed through her; she closed her eyes.
And then she remembered. "No!" she cried, pulling her head back. "He might short out every piece of office equipment you have!"
"You can't be serious," Lee said, laughing, holding her close by the chain.
She locked her dark eyes onto his blue gaze. "Put it this way: Can you afford to lose whatever Millie's feeding into her computer right now?"
He thought about it, then released the crystal from his grip. He centered the jewel neatly on her breast. "I don't think I like this Mr. O'Malley of yours," he said, dusting off the crystal with his fingertips.
"What does he care? He's not the one running for office," she said impishly.
"Will you tell him for me that I mean him no harm?"
"I think he pretty well knows that." Her voice became more serious. "This conversation seems pretty dumb unless you believe me, Lee. Do you?"
He winced and rubbed the back of his neck as if he'd got a crick there. "It's a pretty stupendous thing, Em, if it's true. Part of me wants to assemble a congressional committee to investigate. Part of me wants to steal that necklace and see for myself."
"Do you?" she repeated doggedly.
"I want to. No one wants to believe you more."
Emily's Ghost Page 20
