Call My Name (6 page)

Softly she repeated once more, “I’m not going to Washington.” Oddly it seemed more a prayer than a declaration, and a feeble one at that. Determined to dismiss the preposterous suggestion as just that, she put the key in the ignition, then reached a foot for the gas pedal. Sliding nearly out of the seat for lack of leg to reach the distant pedal, she muttered a silent oath, then slid the seat forward once more.
The arrogance of the man
, she fumed,
to take over my car as though he owned it!
Diverted in this way by a petty issue, the matter of a trip to Washington was temporarily shelved. In fact the entire visit with the honorable Senator Andrew Charles fell victim to the usual slew of Saturday afternoon errands, such that his name did not cross her mind until later that afternoon when Glen Roberts called.

“How did it go, hon?” he asked enthusiastically.

“Not bad, Glen. But we didn’t really have much time to get to all the major points. He asked me to compile a written summary of our criticisms for him to see.”

“When?”

Good old direct Glen! “Ah, he was pretty vague about that,” she hedged. “He said he would try to get back to me within a week or so.”

“Terrific! Did he sound interested in our work?”

Again she fudged the specifics. “He seemed … open-minded, if that’s what you mean.” Recalling his use of that very term in conversation with her, Daran squirmed uncomfortably.

“And you are tired and don’t really feel like going into detail about it, right?”

She smiled. “Right.”

“Okay, hon. Another time. We’re on our way out anyway. Any plans for tonight?” he asked, as if he didn’t know the answer. The whole world loved Saturday night—except Daran Patterson.

“As a matter of fact, yes. I have an exciting date with a quiche Lorraine. It’s going to hopefully put me in the mood to write that article for the
AmPsych Bulletin
. It could be a very productive evening.” Again she cringed at the echo of another’s words. Productive—that seemed to be the word of the day.

“I hope so, Daran. Talk with you first of the week.”

With the phone cradled on its receiver, Daran sauntered idly into the living room and slouched carelessly into a large upholstered chair. Slowly she looked around at her lavish surroundings. For herself, her own tastes ran along much more simple lines than the plush carpeting and thick-cushioned sofas all in stark white and accented with pillows of rich brown and gold, and scattered brass-rimmed end tables. The fireplace was large and open and utterly unsuited for a fire, planted as it was with a vast assortment of shade-loving plants and ferns. Abstract paintings and lithographs stared down from the walls—all the property of the owner of the house. In fact, the only rooms which bore the stamp of the current resident were her bedroom and the study, both crammed with personal material in gross contrast to the seemingly neutral splendor of the living room, kitchen, and the master bedroom, which she had shunned.

Tucked away on this quiet hillside in Simsbury, the house was a lovely getaway for Daran. Friendly faces abounded at the local shopping center, yet she was left alone on this, her hillside. Even the few neighbors whose houses were reputed to exist in each its own burrow around the rise had been invisible in the six months she had lived here. She had her house; she had a small garden plot in the back; she had the cover of a thick-grown forest to shield her from the world—what more could she ask?

Yet, for the first time in many months, loneliness was a tangible thing. Why, on this particular night, had it returned to haunt her? Had the thought of Washington, of Bill earlier in the day, stimulated her sensitivities? Had things been different, had Bill been a different type of person, had his ambition been private rather than geared toward the public sector, Washington might have been her home now. But it was not, and never would be, her home—not if
she
had any say in the matter!

Bristling with determination, she changed into jeans and a T-shirt, then put a pre-baked quiche in the oven to heat. Gently torn lettuce lined a small wooden bowl, topped with several tomato wedges and handful of cucumber slices, by the time the quiche was warm. Yet the sight of the finished salad brought thoughts of that one she had eaten at lunch, and Daran was able only to pick and push with disinterest.

Disconcerted, she quickly cleaned the kitchen, then retreated to her study to work. It was hopeless; concentration eluded her even here in her very private bastion. Pen in hand, she stared at the blank sheet of paper on the desk. Cap of pen in mouth, she let her eye roam the room aimlessly. Tip of pen tapping paper, her patience wore thin, until, finally, with a soft curse, she dropped the writing tool entirely and gave up.

Similar fates met the television, then the radio in turn. Nothing seemed to please her. Restlessly she stalked from room to room, a caged animal awaiting its release. But from what? She was a free and independent woman, answering to no one. What, then, could explain the coil of tension that was wound up within her? Why, so suddenly, had it appeared?

The black of night beckoned from room to room beyond each windowpane. It was out there—the emptiness—reflected in the image of herself upon the glass. She stared. Slowly she turned to pace to another spot. Nowhere could she find a remedy for the dull ache that gnawed at her.

Returning to the living room, her eye fell on the large key ring that lay on the coffee table by her purse. He had known just which key to use, precisely how to spark her tired old VW to life, even which roads would take him to his destination with a minimum of traffic. He was obviously a man who believed in efficiency, a man—from his record—who got things done. Why, then, had he wasted a good hour and a half, all told, with her today? What was his motive? As sure as she had to acknowledge him as the best-looking man she had seen in a long time, she knew that he would have a very definite motive for every single thing he did.

A frivolous moment’s digression brought recollection of his kiss, so short and sweet and strong. In memory, her lips burned anew at their contact with his. In memory, she recalled her near mindlessness at that instant. Then, in a far greater span of memory, the parade of men dodging in and out of her life during the past five years flashed before her. Many had tried; none had succeeded. After Bill she wanted no part of the male ego, the male libido. The male intellect was a different matter. That she could respect. Over the years some of her most rewarding intellectual relationships had been with men, with colleagues of hers at the college, the hospital, even in the Project.

Today she had been impressed with his intellect. No doubt he was as bright as they said. And companionable. That had surprised her even as it puzzled her. But the other she did not need. That kiss had been a mistake from the word go. If only she had pulled back or turned her head or fended him off with her hands; hadn’t she become expert at doing just that? Then why hadn’t she this time? And why did the memory of him disquiet her so?

In the idle mind, frustration mushroomed into anger. This was not just any man who had overturned her peace of mind. This was a United States senator, an active member of the political establishment. He was no different from the others, with his cocksureness and his arrogance. And she, supposedly more experienced and wise to the ways of such men, had fallen for his kiss as many another must have done. Oh, yes, he wanted something. Subservience was the name of his game. The senator issues the orders, as he had done in those last few minutes, and assumes that the world is eager to please his every whim. It was appalling. And she wanted no part of it. Senator Andrew Charles could just take his Rights of Minors Act and blow it—if bedroom antics were the prerequisite to compromise.

The gentle chime of the doorbell contrasted sharply with her mood, mellowing it but faintly, as she rose from her seat. Was it Glen and Lois, checking up on her again, after their own big night out? Several times before, they had driven up, stopping in to say hello—to drag her from her books, no doubt—if the lights were on, passing on quietly home if all was dark. Stupidly she had left the lights burning brightly, a sure sign of invitation. And it was only ten o’clock; how could she feign exhaustion, even though the last thing she felt up to was a cheery visit?

A sigh of resignation blended with the repeat of the door chimes as she grabbed the knob and pulled the door open. Daran had been grossly mistaken. Before her stood neither Glen nor Lois, nor any of the others who fell under the category of friends who might drop in at ten o’clock on Saturday night. Before her stood the one she least expected, the one whose presence had lingered, against her will, in her mind for much of the evening, the one who had touched off the very fit of temper that had seized her moments earlier. Before her, tie loosened, jacket slung over a finger draped on his shoulder, arm resting indolently against her door jamb, was Senator Andrew Charles.

“I believe we have some unfinished business to attend to.” He spoke softly. “May I come in?”

Never in the weeks to come would Daran understand what possessed her, at that moment, to do what she did. Questions raced rampant about her mind. Emotions seesawed precariously round and about them. Better judgment struggled for its hearing, but to no avail. For, above the silence of her intellect, some other force bid her stand back and let the fellow in. Which she did. Promptly. Quietly. Graciously. It was, indeed, her own hand that closed the door on the dark of night as the senator entered her home.

CHAPTER 3

“Very nice,” he murmured, his eye perusing the chic decor as he moved confidently to the center of the living room. Her own appraisal was no less sharp, encompassing the fine fabric of his formal tux, its satin-striped pant legs emphasizing his length, the starched white shirt, now opened at the neck to exaggerate his even tan, stressing the broad expanse of shoulder beneath. But neither the elegance of his dress nor the sureness of his step could hide the obvious.

“You look tired.” Her quiet evaluation brought a wry smile to his lips.

“Believe it or not, this is my fourth stop this evening. There was a cocktail party at the home of the chairman of the state committee—” his fingers were counting them off, one by one, “—then a reception at the aircraft executives’ club, then a dinner—a small one for forty people,” he mocked, “at the home of one of my supporters in West Hartford. You don’t happen to have a cup of coffee, do you?”

Incredulity held Daran immobile. Eyes widened, she could only stare at this unexpected visitor. His own nonchalance, in contrast, was remarkable and perplexing. “How did you find your way up here?” She finally managed to get out a feeble question. “Do you carry your files around with you, or do you simply memorize the addresses of your constituents? Or—” she cocked her head with faint amusement “—is your man Hollings out in the car?”

Silver eyes drilled her, just punishment for her sarcasm. “As I mentioned this afternoon, your address has a nice ring to it. It’s an easy one to remember, if one knows the area as I do.” Suppressing his own humor, he continued. “No, John is with his wife tonight. They had tickets to a concert at the Bushnell.”

Unknowingly Daran arched an eyebrow in surprise. Though she had only met the man this morning and had seen him but in passing, she had quite naturally assumed John Hollings to be single. What was the role of a wife to be when her husband was sidekick to this inveterate bachelor? In the instant, a surge of sympathy for the woman engulfed her along with a germ of desire to talk one day with this poor soul. Perhaps she knew something that Daran did not!

“That coffee?” The man had approached and now stood an arm’s length from her. Momentarily the faint scent of lingering after-shave mixed with the sweetness of brandy to tantalize her senses. Then that very nearness drove her away and toward the kitchen.

Muffled by the thick pile of the carpet in the hallway, his footsteps would have been unnecessary proof of his presence. For the prickling heat on the back of her neck, well beneath the heavy fall of waves that tumbled to her shoulders, announced his arrival in the kitchen seconds after her own. Determinedly she proceeded to set the coffee on to perk. Dismayed by his silent observation, she grew more self-conscious by the minute.

A surreptitious glance upward through the shade of her thick brown lashes revealed the rangy form leaning restfully against the counter. Unencumbered by the jacket, which lay draped across a chair in the living room, his hands had taken refuge in the pockets of his trousers, drawing the black material taut over his muscled form. Embarrassed, she quickly averted her eyes.

Yet the fact remained that her T-shirt stretched over her breasts with more of a pull than she might have wished, that the fit of her faded denim jeans left room for nothing as heavy as wool tights, that her bare feet put nearly a foot of height between them. Here was a very tall man, even lounging as he was against the Formica of her kitchen counter.

Suddenly the reminder that this was
her
home and
her
kitchen brought her up a little straighter. Marveling at the casualness with which this master of presumption walked in and took over both at noontime and now this evening, she steeled herself for a confrontation. This was, after all,
her
Saturday night!

“It’s the strangest thing,” he began with velvet smoothness, as if anticipating her potential for resistance. His eye scanned her face, narrowing in thought.

“What is?”

“Your face. Your expressions. There must be some war going on in that head of yours. I noticed it this afternoon, and again now. You fluctuate from placidity to anger in an instant. Why?”

Annoyed at his perception, she shrugged. “We all have moods. Mine are no different from anyone else’s. Perhaps I’m just not as good at camouflaging them. Or, perhaps—” she lifted her chin in defiance “—your position tends to intimidate people such that they pussyfoot around you.”

Had she intended an insult, she failed miserably. The sadness in his smile gave credence to her accusation. “You may be right. Why aren’t
you
intimidated? You aren’t, you know. From the moment I met you today, you’ve been itching for a fight.”