Gathering String (12 page)

Late that night, the
Tribune’s
political team held its traditional first-night-of-the-convention parody of the smoke-filled room. Gathered around a long table on the patio of their hotel bar, everyone had cigars, although Sam was one of the few actually smoking his.

“Christ,” he stuck a finger into his ear and shook his head, “I think I’m half deaf. With that sorry-assed McGraw as their candidate, who’d have thought the delegates could find anything to cheer about? Erickson’s speech writer’s got the wildest imagination since Jules Verne.”

Liz Walker, another reporter on the National Desk shook her head. “Writer be damned, that man put it across tonight. You’ve got to admire someone who delivers like that.”

Sam snorted, “I don’t have to admire any pol.” He waved the cigar with a grin. “It’s my job to build ‘em up and then tear ‘em down.” That brought a general laugh, and Sam added, “Erickson’s just the flavor of the month. By the next election, he’ll be back in the field buried under a million bushels of soybeans and long forgotten.” He stuck the cigar back in his mouth.

Tess looked down from the other end of the table. “I don’t think so. People love a man who has a way with words, and he’s a decorated Persian Gulf vet to boot. God knows the Republicans have been in a dry stretch. I think they’ll keep him front and center.”

Sam spoke around the thick slab of tobacco. “You sassing me, kid?” They smiled at one another.

At the head of the table, Evie Bundy nudged Stuart Menlo, a photographer, muttering, “Watch this.” In a few minutes, Tess got up from the table and said goodnight. “There
she
goes.” Menlo shrugged, and Evie added a whispered, “Just wait.”

Watching her leave, Sam grinned and then turned back to the group. “Well, if she’s right about Erickson, at least the next Iowa caucuses won’t matter. Damn, I hate …” Several other voices joined in as he finished, “fucking Iowa.”

Sam had to laugh with them. There wasn’t a person at the table who didn’t know how much Waterman hated small towns, the ones he’d endured in Iowa in particular. Covering the caucuses was as near torture as he ever cared to come. He shook his head. “It’s the worst this job gets, freezing your ass off in the middle of a clusterfucked, snow packed farmyard watching a candidate in a flannel shirt trying to talk Mideast policy to Lyle the pheasant hunter.” They all laughed again. "Well," Sam leaned forward and ground out the cigar, “I’m beat, and in a few hours this dog and pony show kicks into high gear.” He tossed down some bills and went out.

Evie nodded, her eyes following him out as she murmured to Menlo, “And there
he
goes.” She turned with a sneer to the group and said loudly, “Any bets on how worn out he’ll be before he actually goes to sleep?”

There were a few snickers and a couple soft hoots, but Rick Higgins, on her other side, muttered, “Cut it out, Evie.” Everyone knew Bundy and Waterman couldn’t stand each other.

“Oh, come on Rick, it’s disgusting, the way he’s always asking for her to be sent out with him. Jesus, he’s not even trying to hide it any more. Before Steve Johnson left for Politifix, even he was joking about it. He was the one who said the travel budget could be cut if Waterman and Benedict would just admit what’s going on and save the
Trib
the cost of two rooms on the road. And he's one of Waterman's best friends."

“That doesn’t mean their work isn’t top flight,” Higgins came back defensively.

“Yeah, right,” Bundy snorted a laugh. “That’s why he always wants her along. She’s just so fucking inspirational.” The rest of table erupted with laughter.

Sam knew there was gossip, but he worked hard to keep Tess distracted. And she was amazed by his romantic streak, his attentiveness. On the occasions she pulled an out-of-town assignment he couldn’t get attached to, he’d often arrange to have a bag of Smarties waiting in her hotel room, and whenever it could be managed, a morning venti from Starbucks was delivered to her door, “with Mr. Waterman’s compliments.”

She hated his smoking and was touched by his painful effort to stop. It became rare for him to light up. When she came back from an assignment at The Hague with a killer flu, he showed up at her apartment with chicken soup and a variety of cough medicines. Her fever broke in the middle of the night, and she woke to find he was still there, asleep in the armchair by her bed.

And every time he was on the road without her, she’d find the same voicemail on her home phone when she came in each evening. Sam, singing very softly and way off key, the words: “Little surfer, little one, made my heart come all undone. Do you love me? Do you, surfer girl?” She never failed to laugh, thinking how astounded their colleagues would be if they ever heard him. But she never answered the question.

On a few weekends when they were both in town, Sam pulled up in his beat-up old Saab, and they took off for the coast because he knew she loved the ocean, Tess never asking what arrangements he’d made. Or what excuse he gave his wife.

But in spite of his efforts, there was no hiding that Judith was still part of his life. Sometimes, going to or from a shoot, Tess would catch sight of Sam ducking into a cab, his head bending toward the dark-haired woman who picked him up. And once flipping through the paper, she came across a picture of Judith, hair pulled back sleekly, designer gowned and exotically jeweled, attending a charity function at the Swedish Embassy with a laughing, tuxedo-clad Sam just behind her.

There were times when Sam and Tess were together, her room lit only by the glow of the street lights below, that she would look into his sleeping face, or stare at her own white hand resting in the dark hair of his chest, and feel like she belonged with him. She'd almost believe that everything would be alright. But later, at her window, when she watched him run jauntily down the front stoop to hail a cab, she'd think about who he was going home to. And she knew the greatest sin, the deepest betrayal, were the lies she told herself. Over and over, she resolved to end it, but somehow she never had enough fight in her to get it done.

But they did fight, more and more. She learned fast that it was the only way to hang onto the small bit of control she had left. She’d always known he had a biting tongue, and found he would take advantage by running roughshod over her stunned or hurt reactions. Standing what little ground she held was an absolute necessity, and their sharp, bitter quarrels quickly became newsroom legend.

It was a cloudy, muggy evening the following spring when Sam flew into Reagan, returning from Paris, where he'd covered a summit meeting. He was tired, he’d had a long layover at JFK, and it had been almost a week since he'd seen Tess. The paper hadn’t sent a photographer, so it had been impossible to jack things to get her on the trip. Besides, he’d spent his honeymoon in Paris, and even Sam’s flexible conscience recoiled at the overlap.

As usual, he'd told his wife the trip lasted longer than it actually had so she wasn’t expecting him until tomorrow. He was relieved to grab a cab to Tess's tiny third-floor apartment on the Hill, looking forward to spending the night with her. But to his frustration, when he buzzed her apartment, there was no response. Standing on the sidewalk with his bag and thunder rumbling, he pulled out his cell phone. It still had a bit of juice, so he punched speed dial.

"Benedict," she answered right away.

"Where are you, Toughie? I'm back and camped on your doorstep."

"Sorry." He could tell from her voice she wasn't alone. "There was a little hang-up on this shoot, but I'm packing up now."

"Well, haul ass. Get a cab, don’t take the Metro.”

“I should stop at the office first …”

“Fuck that. I'm out here on the stoop, with my big fucking bag, and it's going to rain. Of course, this wouldn't be a problem if I could just let myself in." It was a sore point. Sam had asked several times for a key, but she would never give him one.

He heard her sigh, and she lowered her voice, "Well, for God's sake, just walk two blocks down and wait for me at O'Brien's." It was a small pub where they often stopped for a drink. "I'll meet you there as soon as I can." He heard her phone click, and swore under his breath as he pulled up the handle of his bag, ducked his head against the beginning rain, and started down the sidewalk.

He was on his third Glenfiddich when she came through the door. "I'm sorry," she said before he could even speak. "It was hard to find a taxi in the rain and traffic backed up around the Capitol. I tried to call, but it went right to voicemail." Since his call to her had been his neglected phone's swan song, he knew he couldn’t crank about that. She slipped her camera bag onto the floor and sat down, ignoring his pointed frown. "How was Paris?"

"Rude," he answered sullenly, pushing his still-damp hair back from his forehead. "So, you want to tell me again why I can't have a key to your place? Because it sure would have saved me a hassle tonight."

"No.” She signaled the waiter. "You want to eat now, or get something later? You look kind of shitty. Jetlag?"

He ignored her questions, stuck on her reply. "No? No, you don't want to tell me, or no, you won't give me one?"

"Both." She asked the waiter for a light kir. Then she turned back to his dark face. "We've been through it before, Sam. No key. No."

Her bluntness pushed his anger, and his eyes narrowed, the sharp lines in his face becoming more pronounced. "Don’t tell me no," he snapped. "This is crazy. I'm over there all the time anyway.”

"Don't take that tone with me.” Long used to his explosions, her face took on the stony look that told him she knew he was trying to steamroll her.

But he couldn’t stop. “This is so fucking stupid. You think if I can't come and go as I want, it'll keep people from figuring out we're together?"

"
I
don’t want you coming and going when you want." She said it quietly, even though her voice was tense, then sat back as the waiter put down her glass and beat a hasty retreat. "If you’re there, it’s because I decided you could be. That’s the way I want it, and that’s the way it’s staying."

“I swear to God this bullshit is …”

"Waterman and Benedict, what a surprise." Whatever he was going to say was swallowed at the call, and he looked up to see Liz Walker from the newsroom coming toward their table, her husband just behind. Sam managed a stiff smile and a nod. "Did you just get back?" Liz pointed to the bag next to Sam's chair.

He nodded again, noting that Tess was looking away, not even acknowledging the conversation. He knew how much it bothered her when they were seen together, and now they’d been caught fighting again. "Yeah," he answered quietly, fishing for any excuse and lamely claiming, "I needed to go over the details for an assignment tomorrow with Benedict. She was kind enough to meet me here after her shoot."

Walker gave him a little smile. "Well, you sent in some good stuff from Paris. Welcome home." Then she followed the hostess back to a booth in another room.

He sat back, watching Tess, and decided it was best to let his anger slide. He reached for her hand, but she pulled it away. "Look," he rubbed his eyes, "I'm sorry. I am jet-lagged, I'm damp, I'm half in the bag, and I'm un-laid." A tired smile struggled onto his face. "Toughie, I thought about you the whole time I was gone. I bought a ton of that French milled soap you love. Everything in my bag smells like linden. That’s the scent you like, right?” She nodded, surprised as always at the little things he noticed. And she wondered if he’d bought anything for his wife. “Let's have some dinner, and then go back to the apartment, and maybe have a good soak together in that big tub of yours.” His smile grew. “I can spend the whole night."

“Lucky me,” she whispered to herself as he turned and signaled the waiter, who approached cautiously.

Until their meals arrived, their conversation was careful and superficial, newsroom flaps, who was out of a job and gossip about the other journalists who had been in Paris. But as he ate, he slowly realized that Tess had become more and more quiet, pushing the food around on her plate, but eating very little. Finally, after a long stretch of silence, he nodded at the food and asked, "What's wrong? You don't like it?"

She shrugged, "Just not hungry."

"You should eat," he said, looking over her face. "You're getting awfully thin." She just shook her head. "What is it?" he asked, and when she didn’t answer, he sighed impatiently. “It’s the thing with Walker, right? You’re upset that she saw us.”

The flash in her eyes stopped his sarcastic chuckle. “This is my life, not some joke.” It was a rasping whisper. “I mean the people at the
Trib
, and you know it. I mean the people who are supposed to notice me for my work, not my …” She closed her eyes and shook her head. He stayed quiet. And when she opened them again, she said, “You think I don’t know people are talking? Sam, Evie Bundy is keeping track of every single out-of-towner we pull together. She makes sure the whole newsroom is aware …”

His mouth turned down with annoyance. “Jesus, who cares what Bundy says? She could watch us fucking and still get the lede wrong.”

“I care, Sam. I’m the one who cares.”

He shrugged, put another fork full of roast beef in his mouth, and muttered, “Don’t.” The single word was flippantly said, but something in the way her eyes creased made him feel as if he had struck her, and he froze.

"I …” And around the deep, hard knot in her chest, she drew a breath and pushed the words out, “I'm unhappy, Sam."

She just caught the rare look of hurt that crossed his face at her words, and then it was gone, replaced by the sharp, edgy expression she'd come to dread.