Wrong Dress, Right Guy

by Shirley Hailstock

  The Stafford Cafeteria was a good place to eat if you wanted simple, substantial food and were doing a paper on the eating habits and table manners of families of tourists visiting the nation’s capital. It wasn’t even on Mac’s second or third list of places to go. He preferred the ambiance of upper Wisconsin Avenue or the serenity he felt by watching the slowly flowing waters through the windows of seafood restaurants along the Potomac River.

  Justin Beckett had asked to meet him at the Stafford. Why, was still a mystery, but Beckett had slipped him a clue or two in the past and he was a reliable source. The noise level was high and activity seemed to be everywhere; people moving back and forth, kids playing in food or trying to get away from parents who were holding them in line or in seats. Mac spotted Beckett sitting at a table near the end of the room.

  Approaching him, he said, “Beckett, I hope you have a really good reason for bringing me to this tourist trap.” Mac hung a leg over a chair and sat down in front of Justin Beckett.

  “I do,” he said.

  Mac had been a reporter for several years. He wrote a weekly editorial on the politics and politicians in Washington. Beckett worked in the OEM, Office of Emergency Management. Like the White House, the lights at OEM burned 24-7. Most people didn’t want to know what went on there, even if they thought they did. Mac’s actions stopped. He’d never received an exclusive before and wasn’t sure if he was about to be delivered one today.

  “Well, what is it?” Mac asked. It wasn’t often that people came right out with what they wanted to tell him. Some wanted graft. Some wanted to drag out their secret, giving the appearance of self-importance, inflate their egos, until Mac either paid them or got up to walk away. Invariably that tactic would have them grasping his arm and trying to negotiate a deal. Beckett wasn’t either type. He was usually straightforward. Honest. And Mac liked him a lot.

  Beckett looked around to see if anyone was listening. “There’s something going on up on the Hill.”

  There was always something going on up on the Hill. Mac forced himself not to say it. “Something more than the usual?”

  Justin Beckett nodded. He leaned forward and whispered. “I don’t know how many people are involved.”

  Mac felt his blood pressure rising. It always happened when he smelled something big. Excitement flowed through him.

  “I only overheard a little bit of it, but the pages are part of it.”

  “What is it?” Mac couldn’t help asking. Beckett was drawing this out too long. They were sitting in a very public place. Anyone could see them. Maybe that was why Beckett had chosen it. It was touristy and not apt to be serving a single government official, outside the paid security guards.

  “I wish I knew. I was on the Hill this morning. I go there every now and then.”

  “Just like you have lunch here?”

  “There’s another reason for that.” Beckett glanced over Mac’s shoulder. Mac didn’t follow his gaze. If someone was there who shouldn’t see them, he wouldn’t draw their attention. He would find out who it was later.

  “What happened on the Hill?”

  “Like I said, I go there occasionally. For no real reason except to relax, stand in the place where history was made. I join the public tour.”

  Mac smiled. Beckett was a lot like him.

  “You never know what you’ll hear or see. What I heard this morning was totally unexpected. I was standing at the John Adams desk in the Rotunda.”

  Mac nodded. He knew about the desk. John Adams is the only President of the United States who ever returned to Congress after being president. And for a very good reason. Through some trick of construction in the former Senate chamber, if something was whispered at a particular spot on the other side of the room, the words could be heard as clear as if they were spoken directly to him at his desk. Adams never revealed this secret, but he used the knowledge he’d heard politically to get what he wanted.

  “I overheard one of the Congressional pages talking about a cover-up.”

  “Which page? What cover-up? And what was a page doing in the Rotunda?”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t give any names or details.”

  “Then he could have been talking about the plot of a book or a television program he saw the night before.”

  Beckett was already shaking his head. “It was the tone in which he said it that made me believe he was talking about something involving one of the senators.”

  “Justin, there’s nothing here. What do you expect me to do with this?”

  “I don’t know.” He spread his hands. “You’re the only reporter I trust. Maybe you can just keep your eyes and ears open and see what develops.”

  Mac wasn’t an investigative reporter. He did political commentary. But he still needed sources to find out the hidden motivation behind decisions made on the Hill. Motivation was often the subject of discussion on his show.

  “Mac?” Beckett said.

  “I’ll check around and see what I can find out,” Mac said after a moment. He was disappointed. He was expecting something big and he got nothing. Cover-ups in this town were as plentiful as tourists.

  Beckett was looking over Mac’s shoulder again. Turning in his chair, Mac followed Beckett’s gaze. His breath caught when he saw Cinnamon Scott sitting in a booth about three tables in front of them. There was a big smile on her face as she laughed at something another woman said to her. What was she doing here?

  “You know Cinnamon Scott?” Mac asked.

  “Who’s Cinnamon Scott?”

  Mac turned around again. This time he looked at the other woman. The two had the same color hair, but nothing else about them spoke of a blood-relationship. Yet Mac knew the woman was Samara. There were photos of her at Zahara’s. Cinnamon had spoken of her yesterday. Mac remembered holding the photo of the two of them. Both had filled out nicely compared to the twelve-year-olds they were in the photograph. His eyes went back to Cinnamon. At that moment hers connected with his and the smile on her face froze.

  “Samara?” he asked Beckett.

  “You know her?” His eyebrows rose. “I should have known you’d know every beautiful woman in D.C.”

  Mac accepted the compliment which he thought of as an insult. He did not know every woman and was by no means a playboy. Granted he never wanted for companionship, but he didn’t love ’em and leave ’em, either.

  “Many people believe Washington is a big place, but in actuality, it’s very small,” he told Beckett.

  “How did you meet her?” Beckett asked. “She works here and she’s not in the news. I believe she even shies away from the spotlight.”

  “Samara’s grandmother and I come from the same town.” Samara had visited Zahara a couple of times since Mac had lived in her house. Yet the two hadn’t crossed paths. By coincidence, he’d been away during her visits. “But, it’s her sister I’ve met,” Mac said drily. “She’s the other woman sitting with her.” Mac’s cell phone rang and he turned back, pulling it out of his jacket pocket. “Excuse me,” he said to Beckett before answering the call. After a moment he closed the tiny instrument and returned it to his pocket. “Sorry, but I have to go.”

  “Trouble?” Beckett asked.

  “Nothing serious, but I have to run.” Mac got up. Beckett stood, too, lifting the plastic tray his lunch had been on. “I’ll keep a watch out for anything on the Hill,” Mac promised.

  Mac glanced at Cinnamon and her sister. She winced as he and Beckett got up and walked toward them. It gave him a perverted sense of pleasure that he made her uncomfortable. He also felt an unfamiliar clench in his stomach and an overall feeling of happiness at seeing her. The urge to go over and slip into the booth next to her was strong, but he had somewhere to be. And the image of Cinnamon in the wedding gown was still in his mind, fighting with the image of her bare back as he unhooked the dress buttons.

  Mac’s office was crowded with papers. His computer was practically lost among the many newspapers and magazines
he read each day. He needed to read everything on the political scene in order to select his guests and prepare discussion questions. He sat at his desk. He’d followed up on Beckett’s comments. The last person he’d called had just hung up. Mac replaced the phone and turned around and stared out the window. The view only showed him the buildings across the street from his office. He thought about the calls he’d made, but nothing seemed of any use. He’d keep an ear open to what Beckett said. Something might develop. Mac had feelers out, people he could trust.

  What was she doing there? His mind went to Cinnamon Scott. She was the last person Mac expected to see, especially in a tourist cafeteria. But since he’d laid eyes on her, he couldn’t get her out of his mind. She had a great smile. He grinned, just thinking about it. She hadn’t bestowed her smile on him, but in the cafeteria with her sister, the two had laughed at something. Mac hoped it wasn’t him.

  “What are you doing? Aren’t you supposed to be working?”

  Mac turned around and saw Ebon Massey standing before his desk. Ebon had been Mac’s mentor. He knew everything there was to know about the news, especially Washington news, but his sphere of influence extended well beyond the District’s boundaries. And he always greeted Mac with a joke.

  “Hi, Ebon, I was just thinking.”

  “About whom?” Ebon took a seat. “That didn’t look like a ‘finding the perfect guest for the show’ look.”

  It wasn’t, Mac thought to himself. Then he decided to ask Ebon. “Have you ever heard of someone named Cinnamon Scott from Boston?”

  “Did the weather for the last few years,” Ebon stated as if he were a walking computer. “She’s beautiful and doesn’t do much in the political arena. Where’d you meet her?”

  “Her house,” Mac said.

  “Are you interested in her?”

  “No,” Mac said, probably too quickly.

  “Then why are you asking about her?”

  “I ran into her last weekend. She’s moved to Indian Falls, and she’ll start working for the NWS at the end of summer.”

  Ebon raised his brows. “That ought to be interesting.”

  “What?” Mac asked.

  “You, interested in a woman who might want more from you than one night of passion.”

  “I’m not interested in her,” he protested. “She now owns the house where I used to live. I’m staying with my sister and I wondered if she’d be open to selling it to me.” Mac latched onto a reason to justify his interest in Cinnamon, if that’s what it was.

  Ebon gave him a pointed look. “Why don’t you make her an offer?”

  “I have. She turned it down.”

  “So what else will you do?”

  “I thought if I found out why she left Boston, she might want to return there and then I could buy the house.”

  “Why that house? There must be other properties you could buy in that area.”

  Ebon was in his late sixties. His hair was white and he packed a few more pounds than his doctor thought was healthy, but his mind was as perceptive as it had been in his prime.

  “I like having roots there. I stayed with the previous owner for a while. She treated me like a son. I feel I owe her.”

  “But Ms. Scott is a blood relative. Don’t you think she already has roots in the house and she’ll take care of it?”

  “Indian Falls is a small town. Cinnamon Scott is from Boston. And she hasn’t been to visit her grandmother since she was about twelve years old. Her roots are not in that house.”

  Ebon got up. “You have roots here, too,” Ebon reminded him. “Your parents left you a house.”

  “Us,” he said. “They left us a house, my sister and me. Since she’s getting married, and the house is outfitted with all the handicap devices Allison needs, it’s better if she keeps the house.”

  “I still say there are other houses in that area. There’s something else on your mind. I’m not even sure you understand it.” He paused, then said, “Yet.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know. But you’ll figure it out.” Then he took a step toward the door. “I came in to ask you for the Wendell report. Could you e-mail it to me?”

  “Sure,” Mac said. “Right away.”

  He turned to his computer as Ebon left and sent the report to him. Then he stared at the screen. His reflection on it was mirrored back at him. Was he trying to get rid of Cinnamon? He knew the answer to that. He didn’t want her there, didn’t want her staying in Zahara’s house. She hadn’t been there for her grandmother when she was alive. Coming in now and taking over the house seemed like a slap in Zahara’s face.

  Mac remembered her opening her home to any and everyone who came by. Often a crowd would drop by just to say hello, enjoy a television program or sit on the wide porch and talk. Mac felt comfortable there. He worked without her interference. She never asked him about his plans to come and go, yet there was a ready-made meal for him when he got in.

  The only surprise Mac had was why Zahara had left the house to Cinnamon alone and not to both her granddaughters. If she was going to leave it to one of them, Mac thought, it should have been Samara. She was the one who had come to visit her. But as he’d seen in life, it rarely goes the way you expect.

  After all, he never expected to find Cinnamon wearing a wedding gown.

  The wind blew through the car windows and ruffled Cinnamon’s hair. She pushed it back without thought. Her eyes were trained on the road, but she’d traveled it often enough in the last several months that she could do it mindlessly.

  And that’s what she was doing. Her thoughts were on MacKenzie Grier. He hadn’t even had the decency to acknowledge her with a nod. But then, why should she think he would? He’d been so rude the first time she’d met him. Why should she expect his actions to be any different the next time she saw him?

  Grabbing her blowing hair, she pushed it behind her ear and leaned her arm on the window ledge. Determined to force him out of her mind, she concentrated on the scenery. The trees along the highway were beautiful as spring blended into summer. Cinnamon loved this drive. She liked Indian Falls with its separated houses and streets where people strolled and enjoyed the scenery instead of rushing past it to get from point A to point B.

  Slowing down as she reached the limits of the town, Cinnamon hadn’t quite achieved her goal of forgetting MacKenzie Grier. Pulling into her driveway, she was surprised to find a dark-green van sitting there. She didn’t recognize it and she wasn’t expecting anyone. She also wasn’t in the mood for visitors. Glancing at the van, she saw no one in the driver’s seat, but when she went around the car and headed for the porch she stopped short.

  “Hello,” she said, walking up the four steps to the wraparound porch. Sitting near the door was a woman in a wheelchair. “How did you get up here?” Cinnamon frowned. The house had no handicap ramp.

  “I can walk a little,” the woman said, “and my fiancé brought the chair up.”

  Cinnamon glanced around, looking toward the van and wondered why he wasn’t waiting with her.

  “He’s taking a walk,” she answered as if she understood the unasked question. “I’m Allison Grier.” She offered her hand to Cinnamon.

  Cinnamon reached to take it, when the name registered. “Allison Grier,” she repeated. MacKenzie Grier’s sister.

  The bride.

  For the second time in two days, Cinnamon’s stomach dropped. Thankfully, all she was carrying was her purse and it was slung over her shoulder.

  “I am so sorry,” Cinnamon apologized. “The dress was so beautiful, like lacy ice cream and marshmallows. I didn’t mean to do anything to it—”

  “I’m not here about the dress.” Allison held her hand up for Cinnamon to stop.

  “You’re not?”

  She shook her head. There was a big smile on her face. Cinnamon estimated her age to be close to her own twenty-nine years. She wore a yellow sun dress and had smooth skin. Yellow was a good color on her. It highl
ighted the light brown of her skin. Her eyes were dark-brown and could be as piercing as her brother’s, but they were soft and happy right now. She sat up straight in the chair, yet a wave of pity went through Cinnamon at her inability to run and dance.

  “I thought it was high time I came by and met Zahara Lewis’s granddaughter. With all the details of the wedding going on, I’ve had little time for anything else.”

  “Do you have time to come in for a cup of coffee?”

  “I’d like that.”

  Twenty minutes later they were seated in Cinnamon’s kitchen each with a cup in front of her. Cinnamon had moved a chair from the table to allow room for Allison’s wheelchair.

  “Do you think it’s bad luck, too? I mean that I tried your gown on?”

  “Let me put your mind to rest. I believe in my fiancé. His name is Paul. Paul Mathis. No dress will determine our future.”

  “Your brother was adamant. I’ve never seen anyone so angry.” Cinnamon smiled as she remembered the look on his face and the darkness that painted his skin when he saw her.

  “He can be quite protective.”

  Cinnamon looked at the wheelchair and knew he must have spent a lot of time helping her.

  “I’m sure he was very rude, too,” Allison stated.

  Cinnamon covered her reaction by sipping from her cup. “Only a little,” she lied.

  Allison gave an uproarious laugh. “My brother never does anything little.” She took a moment to look around the kitchen. “I see you haven’t changed much.”

  “I haven’t been here that long. And it appears my grandmother updated some of the rooms in the last few years.”

  “She did. Mac can tell you a lot about that. He was here for most of it. Mac even did some of the work. He can be handy when he wants to. Did all the work at our house for years. Luckily, Paul is also handy.”

  “Here?” That was all Cinnamon heard. Something rushed inside her like a tickle in her blood. She couldn’t explain it, and quickly pushed it away.

  “He’d come to town a few times a month and he always stayed here. Paul and I were living together and he said he felt like a third wheel, so Zahara offered him a room anytime he wanted one. He’s written many of his columns right here.”