by Jack Bowie
“I told you I was born in Virginia. They taught us a lot of local history. I liked it and kept picking it up. Don’t you know a lot about Boston?”
“Some, I guess, but nothing like this afternoon. You’re a real expert.”
“It was fun. Thanks for coming with me.”
Her smile had been pulling at him all day. He wanted to tell her how he felt but was afraid of sounding foolish. “Thanks to you. You did all the work. All I had to do was sit back and enjoy the view.”
They spent the next hour playfully arguing about their favorite part of the afternoon. A bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon helped to relax their nerves and release any lingering inhibitions.
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?” Braxton asked after they had finished dessert.
“No. I’m a spoiled only child. I thought you could tell.”
“Not spoiled, just uniquely independent.”
Goddard laughed at his euphemism. “How about you? Any siblings?”
“One brother. He’s an art director at an agency in Miami. It’s nice ‘cause he lives close to our parents.”
“An art director? Sounds pretty far from computers and engineering.”
“Yeah, Megan said he must have gotten it from our mother.” It came out before he could stop.
“Megan?”
“Uh, my ex-wife.” Why had he mentioned her? No point in hiding it. He hoped he hadn’t ruined the evening. “It was my fault, I was pretty impossible to live with.”
“That’s hard to imagine. Do you have any children?”
“No, we never took the time. We were always too busy with our careers. I got that from my father, too.”
Goddard paused and those deep blue eyes looked far away. “It must be nice to have a family around,” she said quietly. ”Are you still close to your parents?”
“I think so. My father was very important to me when I was growing up. He had to retire a few years ago and it was tough on him. I try to get down and see them as much as I can.”
“Couldn’t he have stayed working?”
“No, it wasn’t possible.” He immediately knew his tone was too sharp.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”
Braxton painfully remembered their conversation in Boston. Maybe he did owe her a better explanation.
“No, I’m sorry I was so short. My dad was a great engineer but not very good when it came to corporate politics. He got in a tough situation and was undermined by a subordinate. It destroyed his will to continue. The company shuffled him from staff job to staff job until he reached retirement age. It was awful to watch. Now he spends most of his time just sitting in a rocker.”
“That’s terrible. You feel so helpless when something happens to your parents. My mother died last year. She had been sick a long time but it still took a while to get over.”
“I’m sorry.” He took her small hand in his and squeezed it lightly. She looked back into his eyes and he felt a warm pleasure flow through him. It was like that first sip of his mother’s hot chocolate after coming in from a biting winter’s day. He never wanted that feeling to go away.
A stately grandfather clock chimed seven times and Goddard looked at her watch. “Oh, we’d better get going if we’re going to get you back to National. What time is your flight?”
“I hadn’t really thought about it. How late do they go?”
“I think there’s one at eleven.” She paused for just a moment. “If you need to leave.”
As usual, he had hesitated until it was almost too late. He had left it to her to make the offer. “I’d rather stay with you. I am your prisoner after all.”
She tipped her head and grinned. “Forgot about that.”
He called for the bill and they headed back to the city, exchanging a few polite comments on the dinner and an occasional joke to hide their awkwardness. She left her hand resting on the shift knob, and he covered it, their fingers entwining over the soft leather.
Anticipation had taken control and there was nothing either of them could do to stop it.
* * *
“Susie, can you please get the door! I’m in the middle of something.”
William Hastings, Democratic Senior Senator from Illinois, member of the loyal minority, and tonight, lonely single parent, was trying to struggle through the latest homeland security report. Normally a tumbler of 18-year J&B, a roaring fire in the study’s fireplace, and his favorite over-stuffed easy chair would have made the work breeze by, but tonight’s continuous buzz of telephones and doorbells had made concentration impossible.
Thank heavens this was the last night of Tracey’s visit to her mother in Chicago. One week of dealing with his twin daughters, even with a part-time nanny, had been more than he could handle. Over the years, Hastings had stood his ground with the best in the Senate: Thurmond, Dole, McCain, even goddamn Trent Lott, but dealing with the thrashing hormones of two high school teenagers had taxed him to the limit. Only one more night.
“Package, Dad.”
A petite waif with orange-streaked hair darted into the study, dropped a FedEx envelope on the corner of the weathered oak coffee table, and disappeared as quickly as she had come.
“Thanks, honey,” Hasting said to the empty room.
Who would be sending him something at home? He hesitated touching it, the memory of anthrax-spiked letters was never far away, but then saw that it was from Karen, his aide that was working on the Potterfield backgrounder.
This must be the latest amendment. Another attempt by the Chairman to rescue the morally-flawed piece of legislation. Hastings saw no reason to believe the United States needed to support, much less become directly involved in, any foreign interventions. Too many American lives had already been lost.
Let our pompous, big-mouthed allies do their part for a change, dammit.
He dropped the package on the top of his reading stack and went back to the report.
* * *
Hastings dropped his head into his hands and pressed at the throbbing vessels in his temples. How did they get all this?
After he had opened the envelope, it had been clear it wasn’t from Karen. The package consisted of twelve pages of computer printouts, detailing his wife’s two decade-long battle with schizophrenia and mental illness: laboratory results that should have been confidential, police records that he thought had been sealed, physician notes from a supposedly private clinic. Records that painted a picture of violence, betrayal, and influence.
He paused for a moment, then got up, walked to the fireplace and tossed the package into the flames.
All he had tried to do was protect his family. What was so wrong with that?
The final typewritten page had said simply:
Pass the Freedom Bill. Or all this, and more, will be public.
Do you really want to do this to your family?
* * *
Northern Virginia traffic had only been terrible not abominable, and, as a result, just before eleven o’clock Goddard pulled the BMW into a parking garage below a modern apartment building in Arlington. They got out and she led him to the elevator, pressing the button for the twelfth floor.
“How fast is this elevator?” Braxton asked as they stepped inside.
“It’s pretty slow,” she said turning to face him.
He took her face in his hands and slowly pulled her toward him. Their lips met with a tenderness neither had thought they possessed. As they kissed, the hunger inside them grew and they pulled closer in near desperation. They slowly separated and she buried her head in his chest as he encircled her with his arms.
She had been right; it took forever to get to twelve.
* * *
Goddard rolled over and stroked his long, muscled back. His breaths were slow and relaxed. He had been strong, yet gentle, and their release complete; the result of feelings long hidden. It was as if all the pain and anguish had been exorcised, if only for one short moment.
Now she was left wit
h the aftermath of her impetuosity.
How could she have let this happen? What would she do if he ever found out?
Chapter 38
Arlington, Virginia
Tuesday, 7:45 a.m.
THE TROPICAL SUN was warm on his face. They had been swimming in a crystal clear lagoon then had lay on the beach to relax. Braxton rolled over onto his back and opened his eyes to gaze into the bright azure sky.
What he saw instead was a flat white ceiling. The morning Virginia sun streamed through the bedroom window and drew a band of yellow light across the top of the bed. It wasn’t the Caribbean, but it was a much more humane method of awaking than his electronic alarm. He reached across the bed but his hand fell empty on the pillow. He hadn’t even bothered to ask if she had to get up early. She must have had an early class.
He sat up and looked around. Goddard’s bedroom was a small, neat space; or at least it had been before the pair had strewn their clothes all over the floor. White sheer curtains complemented pale green walls and a deep teal carpet. A green and blue flowered bedspread lay in a heap at the foot of the bed. The usual female appointments were arrayed on the top of a bureau next to an open closet door: perfume bottles, makeup, a small jewelry box, and a single family portrait of a proud mother and father holding their young daughter. On top of an end table next to the bed sat a lamp, a well-worn Baldacci paperback, and a gratefully quiet digital alarm clock. It read 7:48.
He felt more relaxed than he had in years. The incident was still an enigma; he didn’t know where it would lead him. But last night he had rediscovered a part of himself that he thought had died. It was another step on his road back.
He didn’t harbor any elaborate illusions about his new companion. She was a beautiful, young woman. Independent and mysterious in some ways, strangely vulnerable in others. He vainly hoped the encounter wasn’t just an inquisitive fling with an older man, but he prepared himself for the worst.
As he lay in the bed recalling, as best he could, the events of the night before, he heard a soft tapping from another room. She must still be in the apartment, eating breakfast or reading the paper. He rolled over the edge of the bed, crawled under the bedspread in search of his underwear and slacks, and quickly pulled them on. The noise grew louder and sounded like the tapping of a keyboard. He peered around the bedroom doorway and saw her sitting at a small desk, typing intently on a laptop. Wrapped in a light blue silk robe, her hair fell softly on her shoulders. She looked radiant.
He stepped behind her, thick carpeting under his bare feet silencing his movement. Her typing had stopped and she sat transfixed, staring into the screen. He came closer and, without considering what he was doing, began reading the text.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Senator Lynch
We all mourned the tragic and untimely death of Senator Lynch. I had nothing to do with this unfortunate affair and will not address your accusations through electronic mail. If you contact me personally, I will guarantee your anonymity and answer all of your questions.
I’m sure you realize the seriousness of threats made against a member of Congress. If you continue with this blackmail, or make public your unsubstantiated claims, we will be forced to turn your communications over to the FBI.
Senator David Potterfield
He suddenly realized that he had done something very wrong and very foolish. Trying to step away, he hit the coffee table; a pile of magazines fell noisily to the floor.
Goddard snapped her head around and saw him standing there. “What are you doing sneaking up on me like that? Get away from me!”
Her voice cut through him like a knife. He had never heard such hatred.
“I’m sorry,” he pleaded. “I just came in to see what you were doing. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
She stared back at him for what seemed like hours. He considered walking away; she was obviously in trouble and he didn’t need any more problems. But he didn’t want to walk away this time. That was how he had dealt with most things the past two years: don’t get involved, don’t commit to anything, and don’t trust anyone. Maybe it was time to try another way.
He didn’t know whether he could help or not; he only knew he had to try. He walked up to her and gently held her head against his side. Tears ran down his bare skin. Her arms encircled him and squeezed him tightly.
When she relaxed, he knelt down and kissed her hair. The smell of her perfume filled his head and made him shudder. “Let me help,” he whispered. “Please talk to me.”
The tears rolled down her cheeks, now leaving dark streaks on the cool blue silk. She looked up into his eyes. “They killed him,” she cried softly. “They killed my father.”
He gently lifted her off the chair, picked her up with a sweep of his arm, and carried her to the bedroom. Laying her tenderly on the bed, he sat next to her, stroking her head and letting her tears cleanse the pain. How long had she locked these emotions in her fragile shell?
She cried until the tears would no longer come, then reached over and drew his face to hers. Their lips touched once, then again. She pulled him next to her and they made love, no longer for personal release but for comfort and compassion.
* * *
He filled two glasses with orange juice and crawled back into the bed, piling his pillows next to the headboard and leaning back next to her.
“I woke up about six and couldn’t get back to sleep,” she explained after he had settled in. “You looked so peaceful I didn’t want to bother you so I went into the living room.” A smile returned to her face and her eyes regained some of the sparkle of the night before. She reached over and placed her hand on his arm. “I hadn’t checked my email since yesterday morning.”
“I am sorry about startling you. I wasn’t trying to pry.”
“I know you weren’t.” She took his hand in hers. “It’s just that I had been hiding it for so long.”
“What did the message have to do with your father?”
Her eyes drifted off to another place and another time. “It’s a long story. My real name is Susan Lynch. My father was a U.S. Senator from Virginia. When I was eight, he ran for reelection. I can’t remember much about the campaign, but I know it was very hard on him. People were saying awful things. The older kids at school would repeat them but I didn’t understand. Why would anyone want to say bad things about Father?
“He lost the election. After that, people just stopped talking to us. Even our friends didn’t want anything to do with us.”
She wiped a tear from her cheek and continued.
“Father took it very hard. He started drinking and arguing with Momma. They tried to hide it but I knew. I heard them at night after they put me to bed. I tried to be good but I didn’t know what to do. After a few months he withdrew completely. He stayed in the house all the time. I thought it was my fault.”
The story sounded all too familiar. He was afraid he knew the ending.
“One day about six months after the campaign we came back to the house and Father was gone. He didn’t come home for dinner. That night Momma came into my room and told me that he had died. I didn’t believe her and threw quite a fit apparently. We yelled at each other and got mad and cried a lot. She finally told me that he had killed himself.”
She paused and stared out the window. He wanted to hold her, help her through the journey, but he didn’t. She needed to remember in her own way.
“You don’t have to . . .” he said.
“Yes. I do,” she replied. “For us.
“I have a vivid memory of the funeral. Hardly anyone came. We had this big house in Fairfax. There had been lots of parties and Father would introduce me to all of his friends. I would stay up late and sneak down to watch the people come and go. But no one came to his funeral. I hated all of them for abandoning him. I still do.
“Momma was never the same. We sold the house and took her maiden nam
e, Goddard. She sent me away to boarding school and bought a small house in Maryland. She couldn’t stand to stay in Virginia.
“One of Father’s real friends, a lawyer, handled all of the business for Momma. When I was fifteen we had to put her into a home. The doctors said she had a stroke but I think she just decided to give up. I tried to see her as often as I could but she never did recognize me after that.”
She stopped, her head falling softly onto the comforter in his lap. He gently stroked her hair until she could continue.
“I’m so sorry,” he said after a few minutes had passed. “It must have been very difficult growing up alone. It’s hard enough when you have your parents around.”
“I did okay,” she whispered. “We had enough money from father’s investments and the schools I went to were very good. I learned a lot, but never made very many friends. I’ve never trusted anyone after what happened to Father.” She looked up at him. “I’ve never told this story to anyone, Adam.”
Her eyes glistened from the tears, like pools of deep ocean water. All he wanted to do was take away the pain, if only for a moment.
“I went to the University of Maryland to be near Momma, then came here to Georgetown. I hadn’t been able to decide what to do with my life. I just coasted from one degree to the next.
“Then last November Momma died. I had to take care of some paperwork and found a box of old letters and documents. There was a letter from Father that he had written to Momma the day he died.”
She crawled over him and grabbed her robe. The silk billowed in the air as she moved over to the jewelry box. She pulled something out of the box, came back to the bed, and handed it to him. He looked back at her, testing the moment.
“It’s all right,” she said. “I want you to read it.”
“Mrs. Maria Lynch” was written on the outside of a faded envelope. He carefully pulled out the single sheet of paper. The letter was written in longhand with strong, bold loops and even, straight lines.
Dearest Maria,
I can no longer bear seeing the pain in your eyes and having you endure the innuendo from our supposed friends. Please believe me when I say that none of the stories are true and that I would never betray your love or the trust the citizens of Virginia placed in me. I was naive and underestimated the forces behind the lies and, because of that alone, I have failed.
