Tomorrow's Promise

by Sandra Brown

  Over the years, however, the dreams had become less frequent and dimmer, more nebulous. When he invaded her subconscious mind, he was still a youth, a nineteen-year-old boy. Now, if he were alive, he was a mature man. What did he look like? She had no idea, and that haunted her. The man to whom she was linked by name and holy vow she might not even recognize if they accidentally met on the Street.

  "Keely?" Betty's tentative nudging roused her from her reverie, and she asked, "Are we here already? I was rehearsing my speech in my head." When had she started lying so blatantly and with such constancy? Since she had met Dax. Since she had talked to him, laughed with him, touched him, kissed him. Since she had admitted only to herself that, for the first time in years, she wanted to experience the physical loving of a man.

  There were three other women who met them in the corridors of the Congress. They, too, were actively campaigning to prevent the MIAs from being classified as dead. Keely knew them all and greeted them warmly.

  A page ushered them into the chamber where the subcommittee hearing was to be held. Keely was seated at a table with a microphone mounted on it. Betty was beside her. The others took seats behind them.

  Keely took her notes out of the attaché, stacked them neatly, arranged her purse on the table, anything to keep her eyes from scanning the room, though she didn't think Dax was there yet. Pages, aides, reporters, and the other committee members moved around the room, greeting each other, shaking hands, talking, reading newspapers or briefs. Keely took off her coat and a page rushed to help her. She was thanking him graciously over her shoulder when she saw Dax walk into the paneled room.

  Their eyes met and locked. Each was powerless to control the intense attraction, so they graciously surrendered to it and allowed themselves the luxury of looking at each other. For a moment they were held captive by the other's presence in the room, oblivious of everyone else. Keely saw mirrored in his face the same yearning she felt. It held on tenaciously. All through the restless night when she had awakened from her dreams, it hadn't been the security of Mark's arms she longed for, but Dax's. The whispered words of comfort she imagined hadn't come from her husband's lips, but from a mouth juxtaposed most alluringly to a deep dimple. It had been Dax's eyes, dark and fathomless, that had warmed her chilled soul.

  Their binding gaze wasn't broken until another congressman moved in front of Dax and took his hand in a hearty, backslapping handshake. Keely faced the front of the room again, tugged the hem of her skirt down over her crossed knees, and read – or pretended to read – the papers she held in her damp hands. How could she possibly live through this?

  A few minutes later the hearing was called to order. Congressman Parker of Michigan, the chairman, made his opening remarks and introduced each member of the subcommittee to the representatives of PROOF. When he introduced Dax Devereaux, Betty's elbow touched Keely's right ribs gently. She wasn't sure what that covert gesture was supposed to convey and she didn't turn her head to look at Betty and find out. Dax was obviously the youngest member of the subcommittee. He was unequivocally the most handsome. But was he friend or foe? There were eleven congressmen serving on the committee, the majority party having the advantage of one. Dax was of the majority.

  Congressman Parker adjusted the half-glasses on his nose and peered over the silver rims at Keely. "Now, Mrs. Williams, I think you have prepared a statement on the behalf of PROOF. We should like to hear it at this time."

  "Thank you, Congressman Parker." She addressed the members of the committee, the press, and then in her well-modulated, softly Southern voice, presented the case for PROOF. She neither read her copious notes nor quoted anything by rote. Instead she spoke conversationally, with conviction, but on a personal level, as though she were addressing each committee member on a one-to-one basis.

  In conclusion she said, "It is our most sincere hope that you, as esteemed and knowledgeable representatives of the American people, will table this proposed bill. That you will keep those classified as Missing In Action alive until we are all satisfied to the contrary."

  No one moved for a moment, impressed by her informative collection of facts and her unemotional, but puissant, presentation of them. Then under the cover of the restless shifting of people who had sat still and quiet for a long time, she heard Betty's "Bravo." Her acclaim was echoed by the women sitting behind them.

  "Thank you, Mrs. Williams." Congressman Parker looked down either side of the table, which was set up panel-fashion to face the women, and queried, "Gentlemen? Does anyone have points for discussion?"

  For the next hour and a half Keely and her group fielded questions and asked many of their own. Points were scored and lost on each side, but most of the committee members seemed in sympathy with the lobbyists if not in agreement with them.

  Keely tried to keep her eyes off Dax, but it was almost impossible. He didn't contribute anything to the heated discussion, but sat back, his fingers tented over the bridge of his nose, and listened closely. She wished she knew what he was thinking.

  Only one of the congressmen was openly hostile, Congressman Walsh from Iowa. His questions bordered on belligerence, and he made what he considered to be valid observations with an attitude of condescension.

  "Mrs. Williams," he addressed Keely directly in a bored, half-amused voice. "Forgive me for pointing out that your appearance doesn't exactly denote poverty. Most of you who are married to or mothers of the MIAs have made new lives for yourselves. Don't you feel the least bit guilty about bleeding the federal government of moneys that may best he appropriated elsewhere?"

  Keely bit back a nasty retort that would tell the congressman in no uncertain terms what she thought of him and his heritage. Instead she said levelly, "I don't think any of us should feel guilty about accepting pay for a lob done, do you, Congressman? Our husbands or sons are considered to be still in the service of their country. They should be paid just like any other soldier."

  "Mrs.—"

  "Please, may I finish?" she asked coolly, and he grudgingly assented. "There is more involved here than money. If our MIAs are declared dead, then whatever measure the government and the army are taking to provide us with information will desist immediately. We must not let that happen as long as there is the slimmest chance that these hundreds of men are still alive, possibly being held prisoner or surviving by whatever means they can."

  The sanctimonious, pompous man leaned back in his chair and crossed his stout arms over his protruding belly. "Do you actually, in all honesty, believe that your husband, or any of these men, is still alive?" Before she could answer, he turned his shiny balding head toward Dax. "Congressman Devereaux, we haven't heard from you. You served in Vietnam, did you not?"

  Keely's surprised eyes riveted on Dax and she was disconcerted to find him staring straight at her. "Yes," she heard him answer. She had no idea he was a veteran of the war.

  "In what capacity?" the older man persisted.

  Each eye in the room was now trained on Dax. "I was a Marine captain."

  "For how long were you in Vietnam?"

  "Three years."

  "A Marine captain sees quite a lot of action, I would imagine," the man drawled unctuously. "Basing your answer on what you experienced there, would you say it's even conceivably possible that these missing men are still alive?"

  Dax sat forward and rested his folded hands on the table in front of him. He studied them for a long moment before he answered the loaded question. "The war in Vietnam broke all the rules of warfare. I wouldn't say that it was conceivably possible that small children could be bribed to walk into a group of GIs and pull the pin on a hand grenade, but I saw it happen. Nor is it conceivably possible that commanding officers could be shot by their own men who were strung out on drugs, but I saw that happen too. During one skirmish I sustained a minor flesh wound. An old Vietnamese civilian gave me a drink of water and bandaged my wound before the medic could get to me. The next morning his head was mounted on a pike not ten feet from
where I was sleeping." He fixed hard, cold eyes on the flustered congressman and said with a brittle voice, "In a war of such atrocious impossibilities, anything is conceivably possible. That's the only way I know to answer your question."

  There was not a breath in the room. Tears blurred Keely's vision as she watched Congressman Parker call the meeting adjourned for lunch.

  * * *

  There was a flurry of people gathering up their coats and briefcases, laughing and chattering in a vain attempt to alleviate the dark mood Dax Devereaux's words had cast over the room.

  The women of PROOF congratulated Keely as a group and then singly for her eloquent expression of their petition and hugged her in turn. She pulled on her coat and neatly replaced the papers in her attaché case. It was an extreme effort not to look at Dax, who was being besieged by constituents and reporters.

  "Keely, thank you," Betty said and hugged the younger woman to her. "You were wonderful. I don't know if we'll succeed or not, but at least we gave it our best shot."

  "We're not done yet. I don't think Congressman Walsh is finished. If anything, I think D— Congressman Devereaux's elocution angered him and made him even more resentful to us."

  Betty looked at the retreating bulk of the man as he imperiously shoved his way past eager reporters. "That big blowhard," Betty scoffed. "He's only trying to get his name on the six-o'clock news. I'm afraid that if they compare him to Dax Devereaux, he'll come out looking like a fool – which I personally think he is." Her eyes surveyed the room and latched on to Dax as he was being interviewed by a network television reporter. "Have you ever seen a man as gorgeous as that one?" she whispered to Keely.

  "Who?" Keely asked with feigned ignorance even as her heart started thumping in her breast. "Oh, you mean Congressman Devereaux? I guess he is rather charismatic. But you're not the first woman in the country to notice, you know."

  "My guess is that he'll go far, at least with the women voters." Betty giggled girlishly. "Who could resist that dimple? And what he had to say—"

  "Excuse me, Mrs. Allway, Mrs. Williams."

  They turned to face a serious, middle-aged man in a brown tweed suit that could have stood a good pressing. His sparse salt-and-pepper hair was sticking out around his head as though he had just come in from a gale wind. He looked at them through wire-framed glasses that were popular a decade ago. "Yes?" Keely replied.

  "I'm Al Van Dorf of the Associated Press."

  "Hello, Mr. Van Dorf," Betty answered for both of them.

  "It seems that the two of you more or less represent PROOF, at least you've always been more vocal than some of the others. I was wondering if you'd join me for lunch. I'd appreciate an interview with you."

  "Keely?" Betty deferred to her. Keely took an instant liking to the reporter. He didn't seem the aggressive, boisterous type. She liked the fact that he seemed nervous about asking them to lunch.

  "I think that would be all right."

  "Thank you," Van Dorf said. "Both of you." He included Betty in his self-effacing smile. He handed Keely a piece of paper. "Here's the name of the restaurant. The reservations have been made. I'll meet you there in say" – he consulted a wristwatch – "half an hour. That should allow us time to get there."

  "Fine. We'll be there," Betty said.

  "Ladies." He shifted his tape recorder from one hand to the other and gave them an old-fashioned half-bow before scampering off, just as a television reporter approached the women for a statement. Betty backed away, leaving Keely to face the lights and cameras alone.

  By the time they edged their way out into the corridor, said goodbye to the other women of PROOF, answered the questions of the competitive reporters, and wended their way through the miles of hallway to the outside of the Congress, they barely had time to flag a cab and get to their luncheon appointment.

  In the taxi Keely brushed her hair and applied fresh lipstick while Betty powdered her nose. They were only a few minutes late when the taxi pulled up in front of a quiet-looking restaurant on an avenue not far from Embassy Row. They hurried inside and were greeted by a maître d' who was escorting them to a table before they could even identify themselves.

  Keely almost stumbled on the well-worn carpet under her pumps when she saw Dax sitting along the wall on the banquette. Van Dorf, Congressman Parker, and Congressman Walsh stood as the two women approached the table. Betty seemed as alarmed as Keely as they were greeted by the small assembly.

  "Mrs. Allway, Mrs. Williams, I'm glad you could make it," Van Doff was saying in a much more assured voice than he had used on them in the congressional chamber. What had happened to his shuffling timidity? "You know these men, of course, but let me reintroduce you. Congressman Walsh from Iowa, Congressman Parker from Michigan, and Congressman Devereaux from Louisiana"

  The ladies extended their hands to be shaken by each of the men. Dax shook Betty's hand and said, "A pleasure, Mrs. Allway." As his firm fingers closed around hers, Keely dared to raise her eyes to his. They were warm and gave off a hungry look that she hoped fervently no one else could discern. That's why she was so shocked when he said, "Mrs. Williams, how nice to see you again."

  * * *

  Chapter 4

  «^»

  Keely covered her gasp of surprise by saying, "Hello, Congressman." His fingers pressed hers quickly before releasing them.

  "You know each other?" Congressman Parker voiced the question all the others were silently asking.

  Keely knew that Betty Allway's eyes had gone wide with disbelief and that her mouth had formed a moue of perplexity, but she dared not look at her friend.

  "Yes," Dax answered easily. "We were on the same flight last night and introduced ourselves then. Mrs. Williams." He moved aside, allowing Keely to slide onto the banquette between him and Parker. Taking his cue from Dax, Congressman Walsh, oozing charm, held Betty's chair for her and she sat between him and Al Van Dorf.

  Keely admired the aplomb with which Dax had handled the awkward situation, though she thought him dangerously honest. What would the other congressmen think? Would it disturb them to know she and Dax had met beforehand? Apparently not. Parker was already studying the menu through his half-glasses. Walsh was boisterously hailing a constituent sitting at another table. Only Betty seemed somewhat shaken. Keely noticed that her hand was trembling as she took a sip out of her water glass.

  Dax, seemingly unaffected, helped Keely off with her coat while chattily asking Van Doff about a recent banking scandal the reporter had uncovered. The hand that smoothed down her back as he adjusted the coat along the banquette belied his indifference to her.

  The waiter took their drink orders and Van Dorf asked, "Does anyone mind if I smoke?" Without waiting for a response, he lighted up a short unfiltered cigarette. He talked around it as he set his tape recorder in the middle of the table. "I thought it would be beneficial if we had a casual, off-the-cuff meeting away from the hearing chambers. The issue at hand involves money, politics, foreign policy, the military, and human emotions. I think you can all see why I consider it to be an important news story. Will you indulge me and speak candidly?"

  "Everyone knows how I feel about this," Walsh huffed.

  "We can always count on you, Congressman, to be vocal about your position on any topic," Van Dorf said. The stodgy representative from Iowa missed the subtle insult. Van Dorf's eyes, which had looked at Keely and Betty with such humility only an hour ago, now shone with rapacious incisiveness behind his glasses. Had the man undergone a personality change? Keely was coming to realize that she had been hoodwinked, as had many of Van Dorf's former victims.

  She picked up the stiff linen napkin folded over her place setting and laid it in her lap. Dax was doing the same. Keely's eyes glazed in shock when Dax clasped her hand under the table and gave it a hard, quick squeeze. When he brought his hands back to the tabletop, his innocent expression gave away nothing. Keely hoped her rapid, shallow breathing could be accounted for by the off-color joke Congressman Wal
sh had just told.

  When the waiter came back to take their lunch orders, Keely said, "Caesar salad, please."

  When Dax had asked for a steak sandwich, he turned to her with a mock scowl. "That's not much lunch for a growing girl."

  She laughed softly. "That's why I don't eat much lunch. I don't want to grow."

  "You don't eat enough anytime."

  "I ate—" She was about to tell him that she had eaten a half of one of the four sandwiches he had left in her room last night when, out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Van Dorf across the table. He had the look of a fox. It was a silly notion, but she could almost imagine that his ears had grown sharp and pointed as he strained to hear their conversation without appearing to do so. "I guess my appetite isn't very active," she finished.

  Since Betty was conversing with Walsh and Parker, it looked quite normal for them to be talking together, but Dax sensed, as she did, Van Dorf's interest. He turned toward the reporter and asked, "Al, are you still playing racquetball when you're not chasing down a hot lead?"

  Dax had an uncanny knack for tapping into someone's vulnerability. Van Dorf automatically launched into a detailed account of his latest bout, of which he was the victor. Keely wondered what the reporter would think if he knew that the shin of her crossed leg was being safely protected by Dax's calf beneath the table.

  During the meal the chatter was limited to generalities. No one broached the subject that weighed so heavily on all their minds. But when their after-lunch coffee had been served, Van Dorf changed the tape in his recorder and lighted another pungent cigarette. "Do you think your husband is still alive, Mrs. Allway?" he asked brusquely.

  Betty, taken completely off-guard, sputtered around the sip of hot coffee she had just taken. "I – I couldn't… Why…"