Call My Name (16 page)

The gathering lasted no more than an hour, with Drew excusing himself promptly at eight-thirty to attend an informal briefing at the State Department. With the dispersal of the others, Daran found herself closeted with a more sober Leo Alteris and two other research assistants. Assuming either that Drew’s warning had made its mark on the other man, or that the weight of the workload beneath which they now struggled had erased any amorous imaginings, she breathed a sigh of relief. It was enough that she did not have to worry about the unwanted advances of an ardent admirer; there was too much to deal with, of a more critical nature, concerning the Rights of Minors Act.

Her hotel room never looked as good as it did that night when, exhausted, she finally returned there. For the greater part of the day she had not left the office, painstakingly explaining then arguing her views before an often skeptical Leo Alteris. It came as some surprise to her to learn that he had himself been responsible for much of the original wording of the bill. That accounted for some of his resistance to change. The rest was due to Drew’s occasional joining in the discussion. While the words may have been Leo’s, the ideas were irrevocably those of the senator. At long last the multitude of arguments that Daran had prepared before that original meeting in Hartford were of use to her. Staunchly she held her ground, offering specifics and statistics to illustrate why a particular item in the bill would be ineffective or another would be too weak to make a permanent dent in the situation which had been building for years.

One source of contention was the juvenile court system. It was this problem that occupied her thoughts that night, then carried over into her attack the following morning when, following a short break to afford a group of Connecticut Boy Scouts a tour of the office, the think tank on the Rights of Minors Act met again.

“But, Leo,” she began, laying papers out before the dark head bent at the desk, “it’s not enough to state that cases must be brought before a judge within a ‘reasonable period of time,’ or even ‘three months from the date of the complaint.’” You have no idea what I see out there over and over and over again. A complaint is brought against a juvenile, perhaps a runaway charge brought by a parent, an assault charge brought by an elderly man in a housing development, even a larceny charge brought by a store owner, and a process begins that is nearly endless.” Sitting forward in her seat, she pleaded her case vehemently.

“First the determination has to be made that the defendant is a juvenile. Then, if he needs it, court counsel must be appointed. And if you think that the average lawyer who represents the juvenile offender on a court-appointed basis is truly committed to serving the best interests of that child, you’re mistaken. I’m not even sure whether, given the mass of red tape to be waded through,
any
lawyer could do better. When the case is finally brought before a judge, it may be heard, held over until the next day or the next week or three months from then. It’s a disgrace, what some call justice.”

She paused for a breath. Leo’s dark eyes held hers, the only concession he made to the arrival of the senator being the passing of several charts and pages of statistics to the lean form that moved silently from the door to the corner of the desk.

“Go on.” It was Drew’s voice, bearing that same self-control that characterized his comings and goings in the office. For a split second she was taken aback. In the times they had spent together, she and Drew had never gotten as far as the specifics of her fault-finding with his bill. Now he sat before her, resplendent in his navy blue blazer, white shirt, and dark gray pants. Features intent, yet with a definite kindness to them, he awaited the resumption of her discourse. This was why she was here—for the discussions she now held with the man and his aides. The deep breath she took caught for just a minute as the knowing twinkle beamed her way from the warm gray of Drew’s gaze. It was the first truly personal gesture he had made since the night they had dined together. It was more in self-defense against what threatened to disconcert her even more that she ventured on.

For the better part of half an hour, Drew sat with them. His questions to Daran were well-timed and pithy, shearing the excess from the discussion as he pondered the core of her arguments. His head was bent, deep in thought, when his personal secretary, Antonia Brown, poked her head into the office to remind him of a hearing he was to attend on the matter of farming subsidies.

Daran’s amber eyes followed the lithe form as it disappeared down the hall. “How can he switch from one topic to another like that, at the snap of a finger?”

“They’re all like that—or, the good ones, at least,” Leo quickly explained. “
I
could never do it; I have a one-track mind.” Daran ignored his potential for a double-meaning, fascinated as she was in the insight he could provide into the workings of the mind of Drew Charles. “The senator has the ability to siphon out the crux of a matter, absorb it, then spit it back in improved form. He can turn on and off at will”—another double-meaning, she was to wonder later—“and has the uncanny ability to be on top of a score of things at once. You’ll see, if you stick around!”

The only things she saw, however, before her flight back to Connecticut late Thursday evening, were the four walls of that office, the functional cafeteria where the aides habitually ate, and the silent comfort of her hotel suite, which saw her eyes closed for the night within fifteen minutes of her return there. At this point, Leo had pointed out, she was merely being introduced to the process. The physical demands would be minimal, with the bulk of the brainwork being ground out in the office. Later in the month, the legwork would begin.

Back in Connecticut, on familiar ground, Friday and Saturday passed as quickly. Once again Daran was in command—of her counseling sessions, of her Child Advocacy Project, of her garden, where green shoots had begun to spring up in healthy array. The silence at home pleased her, particularly after the pace of the work week just over. Drew’s presence in the state for the weekend was deliberately pushed to the back of her mind, where it lingered with gnawing persistence. Despite his original invitation for her to accompany him on some of his rounds, the incident at the office that first morning had convinced her of his second thoughts. She was startled, therefore, to hear the deep voice at the other end of the phone at mid-afternoon on Saturday.

“Where have you been?” His anger surprised her even more than the call itself. “I’ve been trying you on and off for most of the day.”

The return to her own world had emboldened her. Whereas in Washington she might have meekly explained, here there was defiance in her response. “I’ve been working—or had you forgotten. Your precious schemes have forced me to rearrange my own schedule. I conducted four counseling sessions this morning, and just returned from the library.”

“What are you doing now?” Her own outburst had succeeded in stemming his irritation.

“I’m very busy enjoying what’s called leisure. In case you don’t know what that is,” she rushed pertly on, making up in spades for the proper respect she had had to show him—not that there was reason for anything else—in Washington, “it’s that time one sets aside to do nothing. Care to join me?”

The offer had been made tongue-in-cheek. When he accepted it, she was stunned. “I’ll be right over.” If her ears had heard properly, and her senses had interpreted similarly, there was an element of humor in the deep voice whose tone was abbreviated when the line went dead. Staring dumbly at the silent receiver in her hand, she had no idea what to expect. Here she was, in a snug T-shirt and a pair of faded denim cut-offs, barefooted as always in her own home, her hair curling randomly in the June humidity. What was she to do? Sheer obstinacy ruled out the possibility of changing into a more appropriate blouse and skirt; this was, after all, her own time. Their working arrangement had said nothing formal about weekends. If Senator Drew Charles planned to change that arrangement, he would simply have to give her fair warning!

The pitcher of iced tea had just about chilled by the time she padded into the kitchen. While half of her expected to receive a return phone call tipping the hoax, the other half listened for the sound of the car in her driveway. To her growing dismay, neither came. Puzzled and inexplicably annoyed, she carried her tall glass of tea to the patio, collapsing in the lounge chair, cool in the shade of the overhanging oak. It was in this position that the show began.

Her ear pricked up as, amid the gentle sounds of nature, came another sound, a more human one, that of footsteps—or, more accurately, a jogging pace—in the woods that extended for several acres in back of the house. Alarm quickened her pulse. The woods were private property, and were bounded only by private homes on all sides. When her widened eyes took in an unmistakably human shape emerging at a trot from the deep green depths, she gasped. Then slowly she expelled her breath in relief. For the shape had quickly taken on an identity and proved to be none other than Drew. Through the woods. Jogging. Bare to the waist and glistening with sweat. Clad in shorts and sneakers and gorgeous—positively gorgeous!

“How did you get here?” Daran shrieked as he slowed his pace and sauntered to where she sat now, forward and alert.

He was panting slightly, and paused to catch his breath and take a long, cool swig of her iced tea before explaining. “Through the woods.”

“I can see that!” Her own drawl was exaggerated. “But how? From where?”

His gaze touched her directly. “My place.”

“Through the woods?” she asked in disbelief. The tawny head of mussed hair nodded, moments before he drained the tea. “You live
here?
” The smugness in his expression was sufficient answer. “Why didn’t you tell me you lived so close?”

“Does it matter?” As he stood before her, hands on hips, legs planted firmly apart, chest finally settling from the exertion of his jog, nothing seemed to matter but that magnificent body before her.

“No.” The softness of her voice did not betray her thoughts, though her eyes must have done so. For Drew cast her a warning shot, then grabbed her hand to pull her up.

“Have you got a bathing suit somewhere?”

“Yes, but—” Her bewildered reply was cut short.

“Go get it. We’re going for a swim.”

“A swim? But where? I don’t have a pool—”

It occurred to her suddenly that she did not need a pool if her neighbor had one. He saw the understanding in her eyes and passed up a retort of any kind, merely resuming his jogging, in place this time, and glancing at his watch. “Get a move on! We have to be at the Polo Grounds in Farmington by five; there’s a group I have to meet with there. Then there’s the Italian festival on Franklin Avenue, and, if we make it, the Hartford Stage Company’s production of ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream.’”

Incredulous amber eyes stared up at the bobbing figure. “But Drew, I can’t go to those places wearing my bathing suit! You haven’t given me much warning—”

The gray-eyed gaze pierced her intently. “You don’t need much warning. Anything you choose will be fine. Any one of the outfits you wore in the office this week will do. Just—” he grinned, not missing a beat in his jogging, “—don’t wear the leotard and tights I saw you in once. I may not be able to keep my hands off you.” His growl was broken by spasmodic bouncing. And it took Daran not a minute longer to realize the purpose of his activity now. Turning, she smiled to herself; so he
had
caught her dance outfit, tired as he was that night. Changing into her swimsuit, she wondered just how he would react to it. Then, feeling more daring than she had in weeks, she pulled on a short terry cover-up, slipped into sneakers, and joined him.

It was a source of personal pride that she was able to keep up with him on his jog back through the woods, though she suspected that his pace had slowed considerably, and for her benefit alone. The pool was as refreshing as the house was charming, set into the hillside opposite from hers, a contemporary structure decorated with taste and warmth.

“You do very well.” He complimented her gallantly, propping himself against the side of the pool as she finished a slow crawl from the shallow end.

A slight submersion let her hair flow back over her shoulders as she came to rest not far from him. “What did you expect?” Her challenge was coated with fun, both the jog and the swim having worked off the tension that a hectic week had instilled in her muscles.

The afternoon sun sparkled against the gold and brown and auburn of Drew’s hair, much as the water’s glistening emphasized the steel-corded bands of his arms and shoulders. The latter lifted in a shrug as his lips curved mischievously. “Well, after all, you’re almost thirty.” Daran grimaced in spite of herself, bringing a loud guffaw from her companion. “It’s really not so bad,” he consoled her. “When is the big day?

“Not until the end of July.” One brief glance at the boyish enjoyment his teasing gave him—and she let him have his way.

“That long, hmm? You’d better make sure you get everything critical done before then. Just in case, you know…”

“Just in case
what?
”

Again he shrugged with endearing innocence. “Oh, you know, old age hits us all differently.”

In a brief flash of conscience, Daran’s thoughts flew to her mother’s side. It was Mary Abbott’s line about age, over and over again. Daran had spoken to her last week and had said nothing about her impending trip to Washington. What should she say when the phone call came tomorrow morning, as she knew it would?

“Hey.” The voice had softened and was now inches from her ear. “I’m only kidding, Daran.” It seemed only natural that, with the movement in the water that his body had caused, she should float against him. Reflexively she curved her arms around his neck for support.

“I was thinking of my mother,” she explained in a near-whisper. At that moment his support was an emotional one as well. “She always jokes about her age. I really should call her more than I do.”