Brazen Virtue (27 page)

“Do you think that’s fair? Do you think it’s right for you to put this on that level?” Her voice had risen. She lifted a fist and thumped it against his chest. “I know people think I’m eccentric, I know they think I haven’t got everything screwed on too tight, but I didn’t expect that attitude from you. Yes, I care how you feel. I’m crazy about you. Hell, let’s take the big leap. I’m in love with you. Now leave me alone.”

Instead, he caught her face in his hands. His lips weren’t so gentle now and they weren’t so patient either. As if he sensed she would have pulled away, he tightened his hold until they both relaxed. “Go home, Gracie,” he murmured.

She closed her eyes a moment, then turned away until she thought herself strong enough to refuse him. “All right. Then I have something to ask of you.” When she turned
back, her eyes were very dark and very determined. “I want you to go back in and give your shield and your gun to your captain. I want you to join your uncle’s firm.”

“What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

“It’s something I want you to do, something I need you to do so I won’t worry about you anymore.” She watched his face, the struggle, the answer. “You’d do it, wouldn’t you?” she said quietly. “Because I said I needed you to. You’d do it for me, and you’d be miserable. You’d do it, but you’d never completely forgive me for asking. Sooner or later, you’d hate me for making you give up something that important. If I do this for you, I’ll wonder my whole life if I could have done this one last thing for my sister.”

“Grace, this isn’t something you have to prove.”

“I want to explain something to you. Maybe it’ll help.” She dragged both hands through her hair before she pushed herself up on the hood of the car. Now that the shouting was over, a pigeon settled back on the asphalt to peck hopefully at a discarded wrapper. “It isn’t easy to say all of this out loud. I’ve told you Kathy and I weren’t close. What it really comes down to is she was never the person I wanted her to be. I pretended, and I covered for her when I could. The truth is she resented me, even hated me from time to time. She didn’t want to, she couldn’t help it.”

“Grace, don’t drag all this up.”

“I have to. If I don’t I’ll never be able to bury it, or her. I detested Jonathan. It hurt so much less to blame everything on him. I don’t like problems, you know.” In a gesture she used only when she was very tired or very tense, she began to knead her brow. “I avoid them or ignore them. I decided I’d make it his fault that Kathleen didn’t bother to answer my letters, or that she was never warm whenever I convinced her to let me visit. I told myself he’d turned her into a snob, that if she was busy climbing the social ladder, it was for him. When they divorced I blamed that on him, totally. I’m not good with middle ground.”

She stopped here because the rest was harder. After folding her hands in her lap, she continued. “I blamed her drug problem on him, even her death. Ed, I can’t tell you how much I wanted to believe he’d killed her.” When she looked at him again her eyes were dry, but vulnerable, so achingly vulnerable. “At the funeral, he let me have it. He told me things I already knew in my heart but had never been able to accept about Kathleen. I hated him for it. I hated him for stripping away the illusion I’d allowed myself. In the past few weeks I’ve had to accept who Kathleen was, what she was, and even why.”

He touched her cheek. “You couldn’t have been another person, Grace.”

So he understood, so easily. If it already hadn’t happened, she’d have fallen in love with him then. “No, I couldn’t. I can’t. The guilt’s eased considerably. But you see, she was still my sister. I can still love her. And I know if I can do this one last thing, I can let go. If I took the easy road now, I don’t think I could live with it.”

“Grace, there are other ways.”

“Not for me. Not this time.” She took his hand and cupped it between the two of hers. “You don’t know me as well as you think. For years I’ve turned over all the dirty work to someone else, for ten percent. If there was something unpleasant to be dealt with, I’d toss it to my agent, or my business manager, or my lawyer. That way I could just go along without too many distractions and write. If it was something I had to handle myself, I’d pick the easiest route or ignore it completely. Don’t ask me, please don’t ask me to turn this over to you and do nothing. Because I might.”

He pushed a hand through his hair. “What the hell do you want me to do?”

“Understand,” she murmured. “It’s important to me for you to understand. I’ll have to do it even if you don’t, but I’d be happier if you could. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not that I don’t understand, it’s that I think it’s a mistake. Call it instinct.”

“If it’s a mistake, it’s one I have to make. I can’t pick up my life, not really pick it up again, until I do this.”

There were a dozen valid, sensible arguments he could make. But there was only one that mattered. “I couldn’t take it if anything happened to you.”

She managed to smile. “Me either. Look, I’m not really stupid. I can swear to you I won’t do something idiotic like the heroine in a B movie. You know, the kind who knows there’s a homicidal maniac on the loose and hears a noise?”

“Instead of locking the doors, she goes outside to see what it is.”

“Yeah.” Now she grinned at him. “It drives me crazy. I hate a contrived plot device.”

“You can’t forget this isn’t a plot. You don’t have a screenplay, Grace.”

“I intend to be very careful. And I’m counting on the department’s finest.”

“If we agree, you’ll do exactly as you’re told?”

“Absolutely.”

“Even if you don’t like it.”

“I hate blanket promises, but okay.”

He lifted her down from the car. “We’ll talk about it.”

C
HARLTON P. HAYDEN HAD
had a very successful trip north. In Detroit he’d drummed up solid support from the unions. Blue-collar workers were lined up behind him, drawn in by his America for Americans campaign. Fords and Chevys were decorated with
HAYDEN’S AMERICA—SOLID, SECURE, SUCCESSFUL
bumper stickers. He spoke in simple terms, everyman’s terms, in orations two speech writers collaborated on and he edited. His ride to the White House was more than a decade in the making. Hayden might have preferred a Mercedes, but he made certain his staff had rented a Lincoln.

His appearance at Tiger Stadium had been as solidly cheered as the two-hit shutout. His picture, in a fielder’s cap with his arm around the winning pitcher, had made the front page of the
Free Press
. The crowds in Michigan and Ohio had been vocal, his promises believed, his speeches applauded.

Already in the works was a trip to America’s heartland. Kansas, Nebraska, Iowa. He wanted the farmer behind him. As fate would have it, he could fall back on his great-grandfather
who had tilled the land. That made him America’s son, the salt of the earth, despite the fact that he was the third generation of Haydens to graduate from Princeton.

When he won the election—Hayden never thought in terms of if’s—he would implement his plans to strengthen the backbone of the country. Hayden believed in America, so that his vigorous speeches and impassioned pleas rang with sincerity. Destinies—his own and his country’s—were innate beliefs, but Hayden knew both games and war had to be played to achieve them. He was a man with a single purpose: to rule, and rule well. Some would suffer, some would sacrifice, some would weep. Hayden was a firm believer in the needs of the many outweighing the needs of the few. Even when the few were his own family.

He loved his wife. The fact was he could never have fallen in love with anyone unsuitable. His ambition was too much a part of what made him. Claire suited him—her looks, her background, and her manner. She was a Merriville and, like the Vanderbilts and Kennedys, had grown up in the comfortable surroundings of inherited wealth and position sweated for by immigrant forefathers. Claire was a bright woman who understood that in their circle the planning of a menu could be as important as the passage of a bill.

She had married Hayden knowing that ninety percent of his energy would always be earmarked for his work. He was a vigorous, dedicated man and considered ten percent more than enough for his family. If anyone had accused him of neglecting them, he would have been more amused than annoyed.

He loved them. Naturally he expected top performances from the members of his family, but that was a matter of pride as well as ambition. It pleased him to see his wife dressed beautifully. It pleased him to see his son in the top ten percent of his class. Hayden wasn’t a man to give praise
for what he expected. If Jerald’s grades had dipped, it would have been a different matter altogether. Hayden wanted the best for his son, and wanted the best out of him.

He was seeing that Jerald had the best education, and was proud of what his son seemed to be doing with it. Already Hayden was making plans for his son’s political career. Though he had no intention of passing on his power for a few decades, when he did, he would damn well pass it on to his own.

He expected Jerald to be ready and willing.

Jerald was well mannered, bright, sensible. If he spent too much time by himself, Hayden usually dismissed it as adolescent intensity. The boy was almost emotionally attached to his computer. Girls hadn’t entered the picture, and Hayden could only be relieved. Studies and ambition always took second place to females with an impressionable young man. Of course, the boy wasn’t particularly good-looking. A late bloomer, Hayden had often told himself. Jerald had always been a plain, thin boy who tended to slouch if he wasn’t reminded to hold himself straight. He was on the dean’s list consistently, always polite and attentive at dinner parties, and at eighteen had a firm handle on politics and the party line.

He rarely gave his father a moment’s worry.

Until lately.

“The boy’s sulking, Claire.”

“Now, Charlton.” Claire held up her pearl drops and her diamond studs to see which best suited her evening dress. “He has to be allowed his little moods.”

“What about this business about having a headache and not attending tonight’s dinner?” Charlton fussed with his monogrammed cuffs. The laundry had overstarched again. He’d have to speak with his secretary.

While his gaze was fixed elsewhere, Claire shot her husband a quick, worried look. “I think he’s been studying
too hard. He does it to please you.” She decided on the pearls. “You know how much he looks up to you.”

“He’s a bright boy.” Hayden relented a bit as he checked his jacket for creases. “No need for him to make himself sick.”

“It’s just a headache,” she murmured. Tonight’s dinner was important. They all were, with the election coming up. Whatever worries she had about their son, she didn’t want to bring them up tonight. Her husband was a good man, an honest man, but he had a low tolerance for weaknesses. “Don’t push him just now, Charlton. I think he’s going through some kind of phase.”

“You’re thinking about those scratches on his face.” Satisfied with his jacket, Hayden checked the shine on his shoes. Image. Image was so important. “Do you believe he ran his bike into some rosebushes?”

“Why shouldn’t I?” She fumbled over the clasp of her necklace. It was ridiculous, but her fingers were damp. “Jerald doesn’t lie.”

“Never known him to be awkward either. Claire, to tell you the truth, he hasn’t been himself since we got back from up north. He seems nervous, edgy.”

“He’s concerned over the election, that’s all. He wants you to win, Charlton. To Jerald, you already are the president. Do this for me, darling. I’m all thumbs tonight.”

Obliging, Hayden crossed over to hook the chain. “Nervous?”

“I can’t deny I’ll be glad when the election’s over. I know how much pressure you’re under, all of us are under. Charlton …” She reached over her shoulder to take his hand. It had to be said. Perhaps it would be best to say it now and gauge her husband’s reaction. “Do you think, well, have you ever considered, that Jerald might be—experimenting?”

“With what?”

“Drugs?”

It wasn’t often he was thrown a curve that rocked him. For ten seconds, Hayden could only stare. “That’s absurd. Why, Jerald was one of the first to join the antidrug campaign at his school. He even wrote a paper on the dangers and the long-term effects.”

“I know, I know. I’m being ridiculous.” But she couldn’t quite let it go. “It’s just that he’s seemed so erratic lately, particularly in the last few weeks. He’s either closed up in his room or spending the evening at the library. Charlton, the boy doesn’t have any friends. No one ever calls here for him. He never has anyone come over. Just last week he snapped at Janet for putting his laundry away.”

“You know how he feels about his privacy. We’ve always respected that.”

“I wonder if we’ve respected it too much.”

“Would you like me to talk to him?”

“No.” Shutting her eyes, she shook her head. “I’m being silly. It’s the pressure, that’s all. You know how closed up Jerald becomes when you lecture.”

“For Christ’s sake, Claire, I’m not a monster.”

“No.” She took his hands then and squeezed. “Just the opposite, dear. Sometimes it’s hard for the rest of us to be as strong, or as good as you. Let’s leave him be for a while. Things will be better when he graduates.”

J
ERALD WAITED UNTIL HE
heard them leave. He’d been half-afraid his father would come in and insist that he join them for the evening. Some stupid rubber-chicken-and-asparagus dinner. Everyone would talk politics and tout their favored causes while watching out of the corners of their eyes for which coattail to grab on to.

Most would be grasping on to his father’s. People were brownnosing him already. It made Jerald sick. Most of them were just out for what they could get. Like the reporters Jerald had spotted outside the house. Looking to
dig up dirt on Charlton P. Hayden. They wouldn’t find any because his father was perfect. His father was the best. And when he was elected in November, the shit would hit the fan. His father didn’t need anyone. He’d kick out all those pussies in their soft jobs and run the government the correct way. And Jerald would be right there beside him, soaking up the power. Laughing. Busting his gut laughing at all the idiots.