Tomorrow's Promise

by Sandra Brown

  Nicole slumped back against the desk. "Jimineeeee. Did anyone see you there?'

  "Why?" Keely asked, not liking the way Nicole was gnawing her lower lip.

  "Well, I'm not the only one who noticed the … warmth … with which you two danced. That's why I came up here. This is the first edition of the evening paper. I thought you ought to see it."

  For the first time they noticed the folded newspaper she held in her hand. She extended it toward Keely. With a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, Keely unfolded the front page of the society section. There, in a picture no one could miss, were Dax and she dancing, holding each other tightly. His face was bent low over hers, which was raised to his like a flower to sunlight. Their smiles were intimate, more telling than the way he held her. Under the picture the caption read: "Congressman Devereaux and Keely Preston, wife of an MIA. Their turn around the dance floor turned heads."

  "Damn," Dax cursed under his breath and flung the newspaper to the floor. "Damn."

  Keely folded her arms across her middle and turned away, going to the window and staring out.

  Nicole cleared her throat. "You'd better get your stories straight," she warned. "Someone's bound to pick up on this. Dax, did anyone see you at Keely's house?"

  "I don't think so. I parked at a restaurant on St. Charles and walked over."

  Keely turned around and stared at him. "You did? I didn't know that."

  "You didn't? How did you think I got there?"

  They took the steps necessary to bring them together. She shrugged. "I didn't think about it. You were just there." She picked at a piece of lint on his jacket lapel. "You shouldn't have done that. It's a dangerous neighborhood after dark. You could have been mugged."

  "I'm a hunk, remember?"

  "No, I mean it," she said earnestly. "Weren't you cold?"

  He smoothed back a strand of her hair. "When I left? Are you kidding?" The private joke was chuckled over.

  "Yoo-hoo. Remember me?" Nicole said and they turned toward her with glazed eyes as though they truly had forgotten her presence in the room. "Personally I hope you tell the world to mind its own bloody business. I would love nothing better than for you to start – or continue – a hot and heavy affair. But if valor comes before lust, which I sadly suspect it does in this case, you'd better be prepared for the repercussions this picture is bound to generate. Incidentally, there's an accompanying story you failed to read that hints strongly there may have been more going on in Washington than that subcommittee hearing. By the guilty looks on your faces, I think their suppositions aren't too far off base."

  She went to the door. "Please remember that I'm not the enemy. I'm a friend. And I'm sorry about doing what I did today. Had I seen the paper first, I probably would have come up with something less public to bring you two together." She squinted her eyes. "On the other hand, that could be your excuse for last night. You had been invited to come on today's show to talk about the MIA issue and you were only rehashing what had happened in Washington. It isn't much, but it may be all you have."

  With that she was gone. Dax and Keely stared at the door even long after it had closed. Finally they turned to each other. He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "I guess the decision has been made for us."

  "I guess so. I'm sorry, Dax. I wouldn't have jeopardized your Senate race for anything in the world."

  "I know. I knew exactly what I was doing when I asked you for that dance. I deceived myself into thinking that I could hold you platonically." He gestured at the paper lying at his feet. "A picture's worth a thousand words."

  "We'll just have to make sure that we don't give them any more fuel. You said last night that we shouldn't – couldn't – see each other again, no matter how innocently. What happened today should reinforce that decision." She looked up at him. "I'm still married, Dax. Whatever else is a contributing factor, that one remains the same, and it's the one that makes all the others so vitally important. I'm married."

  He went to the door, but turned to her before opening it. "You'll be okay, won't you? What if you're cornered and asked to comment on the picture?"

  "I'll plead stupidity. I met you in Washington. We went to lunch with a group of congressmen, a noted journalist, and another member of PROOF. I respect the stand you took for our cause. I fully endorse you for the Senate. Beyond that, nothing."

  He nodded his head bleakly. He looked like a man going to the gallows, delaying his departure for as long as he could. "If you ever need me for anything…"

  Her eyes answered for her.

  Then he was gone and the pain was unbearable. Blindly she groped her way back to her desk and lay her head down on her arms. The shrill ring of the telephone was a rude interruption to her gentle weeping.

  "Yes," she grated into the receiver.

  "Ms. Preston, this is Grady Sears at the Times-Picayune."

  She gripped the receiver harder and mustered all her poise. "Yes?"

  * * *

  Chapter 9

  «^»

  That was only the first in a series of similar calls. The persistent reporters were vastly disappointed by Keely Preston Williams's calm responses to their barrage of insinuating questions. When asked if she and Congressman Devereaux were romantically involved, she laughed lightly.

  "I'm sure the congressman wouldn't be at all flattered to have his name romantically linked with an old married lady's."

  "Your husband has been missing for over twelve years, Mrs. Williams. And you're not exactly old. The congressman's romantic encounters are legion."

  Are they? How many have there been? Am I just one among many? "I don't know anything about Congressman Devereaux's love life past or present."

  "How do you account for the intimacy with which you two were dancing?" This asked with a leer. "Pictures don't lie, Mrs. Williams."

  "No, but they can be misinterpreted. The congressman and I were celebrating a mutual victory in Washington. He supported PROOF's cause. If he uses as much finesse during his campaign as he did on the dance floor, he'll be certain to win the election."

  This last was said through a tight throat and stiff smile. She sounded like an idiotic, simpering female, but that was better than sounding like a guilty correspondent in a tangled love affair.

  All the interviews followed the same pattern. Since she and Dax didn't provide another opportunity to fan the flames of scandal, it was dying a rapid death. Just when she thought she had dodged even the most incisive reporters, she learned she had yet to dread the worst of them.

  It was four days after she and Dax appeared on the news program. Joe was returning her to her car at the Superdome after a hard day. Three never-say-die reporters had called her for further comment.

  "Looks like you have company," Joe shouted over the loud clapping of the rotary blades as he set the chopper down.

  Keely had already seen the car parked beside hers and now she saw the man opening the door and sliding from behind the wheel. It was Al Van Dorf.

  "Looks like I do," she said grimly. Thanking Joe for returning her safely, she waved him off, and rather than run from under the blades as she usually did, she walked with a measured tread toward her car. Van Dorf had positioned himself between her and it.

  He watched the helicopter lift off and bank sharply in the direction of the hangar, where Joe kept it when it wasn't being chartered.

  "Never ceases to amaze me how things fly," he said, still looking at the diminishing helicopter.

  "Hello, Mr. Van Dorf. What brings you to New Orleans? Did you run out of things to write about in Washington?" Easy, Keely, she cautioned herself. It wouldn't be in her best interest to antagonize him. She softened her sarcastic words with a gracious smile and could tell by the probing look he turned on her that he didn't know if her question had been intentionally snide or not.

  "Let's just say that there are more interesting things to write about down here right now." The feral eyes gleamed at her from behind the outdated eyeglasses. His
smile was slow in coming and insolent when it finally materialized. "Like you and Congressman Deveraux for instance."

  Her look of total bewilderment was worthy of an Oscar. "I – I don't understand. Congressman Devereaux and I?"

  "Why don't we go somewhere and have a drink and talk about it." He moved to take her arm. She eluded him gracefully but left him with the distinct message that she didn't want to be touched.

  "No, thank you, Mr. Van Dorf. I'm on my way home."

  "Well, then, I guess we'll just have to talk here." He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a folded page of newspaper. Keely knew immediately what it was. He studied the picture of them dancing with an objective tilt of his frazzled head. "You take a nice picture, Mrs. Williams."

  "Thank you." She could fence with him as long as he could with her.

  "Would you say the congressman takes a good photograph? He's a handsome devil."

  "Yes, he is. Very handsome." Her ready reply surprised him. He seemed almost angry that she wasn't showing any nervousness. Taking advantage of his guard being down, she asked, "What did you wish to speak to me about, Mr. Van Dorf?"

  He eyed her shrewdly. This lady was no easy case. If she was going to play rough, then so was he. "Is Devereaux as good at lovemaking as he is at debate?"

  If the question was geared to shock her, it was successful. For a moment she was too stunned to speak. When she did, she found it difficult to form words with her rubbery lips. "Your inference is unforgivable, Mr. Van Dorf, and I don't choose to honor it with a denial."

  "Aren't you and Devereaux lovers?"

  "No."

  "Then how do you explain this picture?"

  "How do you explain it?" she fired back. Shock had been replaced by anger and she barely contained her impulse to strike against that knowing smirk that twisted his mouth into an ugly grimace. "People dance together all the time. Do you imply that the President is having an affair with every woman he dances with at a White House reception?"

  "Yes, people dance together all the time, but rarely with such sublime grins on their faces."

  "Congressman Devereaux is a charming man. I find him intelligent, charismatic, enthusiastic. I admire him for the stand he took on the MIA issue. I respect the courage with which he faces his critics. Admiration and respect. That's all I feel for him." Liar, her mind accused, making her even more determined to put Van Doff off the track. "How you detect something illicit from one dance is beyond me. Do you consider that good journalism?"

  "It's not just one dance, Mrs. Williams," he replied coolly. "It's all those covert looks and smiles in Washington. It's a rainy day that neither of you can or will account for. It's a gut feeling I have."

  She laughed mirthlessly. "If your 'gut feeling' is your only source of information, you'd better find others more reliable. I have never been Congressman Devereaux's lover." That was the truth. "I will never be." That remained to be seen. "Nor do I want to be." That was a lie. "Now, I've granted you all the time I intend to. I would think you'd have better things to write about than 'covert looks and smiles,' all of which are only figments of your exploitative imagination."

  With that, she pushed past him and went to her car, unlocked the door with shaking hands and got in. She was pulling her coattail free of the door when he asked her, "What does the congressman think of you?"

  "Ask him."

  He smiled that lazy, smug grin. "Oh, I intend to. You can bet on it."

  She slammed the door, started the engine, and, controlling an urge to race out of the parking lot, drove away at a reasonable and, what she hoped was, an unperturbed speed.

  Later that night, as she got into bed, she was still quaking with anxiety. What could she have said that she hadn't? What had she said that she shouldn't have? Did Van Dorf believe her? Probably not, but he would have nothing else on which to build a story. If he did print a story hinting at a relationship between them, he'd look like a fool. He had no proof, no definitive facts. His material would be purely conjecture. And when it came to the bottom line, they were innocent.

  Of course he might stumble upon the fact that Dax had been at her home after the Arts League benefit. It would take some strong convincing on their part to persuade him that nothing had happened, especially since he was prepared to believe the worst. But in fact, nothing had happened. They had absolutely nothing to feel guilty about.

  Everyone believed her to be Dax's lover. Could no one imagine that Dax could have a platonic relationship with a woman?

  For the past two days Dax's sexual exploits and his long list of "companions" had been counted and recounted. Vehemently she had denied being the next name on that list, but that's what she was automatically suspected of being. Had she submitted to Dax's lovemaking, would that be all she was to him? Another notch in his belt? No, no. Yet…

  She had read an interview with Dax in last evening's paper. When asked about the now infamous photograph with Keely Preston, he had answered glibly, "I wish they had printed the picture of me with the representative of the Longshoremen's Union. It was a much better picture of me, though that burly longshoreman wasn't near as pretty as Mrs. Williams."

  He had laughed it off, made light of it. Of course under the circumstances that's all he could have done. But maybe that's how he really felt. Maybe he wasn't suffering as much as he had told her he was.

  Tears blurred her vision as she stared across her bedroom at the bookcase. The photograph taken of her and Mark on their wedding day was in its place on the third shelf. The bride had bangs and two long skeins of hair hanging over either shoulder to her breasts. Her pure wool dress was hemmed at least six inches above her knee and looked ridiculous with the white patent leather boots that hugged her calves. A traditional wedding dress had been out of the question. There hadn't been time to select one. But had she really got married looking like that?

  Her burning eyes slid to the young man in the picture. Mark. Where are you? What happened to you? Do you live? My sweetheart Mark. For you were a sweetheart. Kind, generous, tender, fun, all of those things. The perfect first love.

  In the picture his hair was cut in early Beatles fashion with long bangs sweeping his eyebrows. That was only days before the army had sheared off his hair at boot camp. His pants and the sleeves of his jacket were too short and tight for his athletic frame. His shoes looked tiny in contrast to the then fashionable bell-bottom cut of his trousers.

  Both of them were wearing silly smiles, quite pleased with themselves for having done such a grownup thing as getting married.

  She sat up to look at the photograph more closely. The girl in the picture seemed someone else. She had no relevance to the woman Keely Preston Williams was now. She was as foreign to Keely as a stranger. This Keely couldn't relate to that girl child.

  Nor, if Mark were still alive, was he that same young man. She couldn't attach a face, a voice, a smile, a personality, to the man Mark would be if he should come back. The boy in the picture was gone, vanished. And, just as surely, the girl no longer existed either.

  Keely lay back down and stared at her ceiling. She tried to remember what it felt like to be kissed and caressed by Mark, but all she could focus on were Dax's kisses and caresses. She didn't recall ever losing all sense of time and space when Mark kissed her. Perhaps her heart had accelerated and her palms had grown moist with anticipation, but she didn't remember that weighty warmth invading her limbs or that liquid, melting sensation that was debilitating and life-giving at the same time.

  Closing her eyes, she beckoned to an imaginary lover. When he came, he didn't have the young, blond good looks of her husband, but dark hair and eyes, inherited from French Creole ancestors. His movements weren't fumbling and apologetic, but practiced and patient.

  No clumsy hands roamed her body, but ones sure of their talent to arouse. They didn't grope for erogenous places, but went to them unerringly, touched them reverently. Greediness and haste were anathema.

  His kiss was deep, engaging ev
ery part of his mouth and hers in a sensuous ballet. Teeth, lips, and tongue were erotic instruments that tantalized, stroked, sipped, and probed.

  A dimpled mouth murmured something against her breast before raining light kisses on the soft flesh. A tongue swept the nipple silkily as though coaxing it to relax, but the pouting tip became harder.

  The persuasive hands stroked downward, touched, found. She welcomed her ghost-lover. He accepted the invitation, whispered accolades in her ear, praising her femininity even as he claimed it.

  Together they moved, giving and receiving equally. That aching voice that was so much a part of her was filled. She became one with this lover who breathed love words in her ear as his body spoke a poetic language all its own.

  Writhing in unfulfilled longing, Keely arched her hips upward, begging her imaginary lover for release. It came over her like a warm blanket, smothering her momentarily until she was clutching at air to fill starved lungs.

  Ever so slowly she coasted down. Her eyes fluttered open and she dazedly wondered what bad happened to her. Realization brought with it an inundation of shame. For when she had beseeched her lover for surcease, it hadn't been her husband's name she called out, but that of Dax Devereaux.

  Her pillow absorbed the scalding tears of bitter remorse.

  * * *

  "Wanna take some sandwiches to Jackson Square for lunch?"

  As with most of Nicole's telephone conversations, this one was without preamble. "I don't—"

  "Have you got anything better to do?" Nicole demanded with a touch of asperity.

  "No," Keely admitted.

  "I'll see you at the front door in half an hour. I'll bring the sandwiches."

  Since that day she had played the trick on Keely of getting her and Dax on the news show, Nicole had given her wide berth. They had spoken occasionally on the telephone and met in the hallways at the studio, but there hadn't been the usual camaraderie between them, and Keely missed it.

  At the appointed time she went downstairs and met Nicole at the front door. They exited the building on Chartres and walked the few blocks east toward the historic square. This was one of Keely's favorite places. With Saint Louis Cathedral, the Presbytere, and the Cabildo on one side and the Pontalba Building on the adjacent side, she sometimes envied missing all the memorable events that had occurred here or near this landmark. She satisfied herself with strolling among the sidewalk artists who lined the walkways around the square with their wares.