The Sweetest Summer: A Bayberry Island Novel (12 page)

“Hal—”

“You asked, so let me answer.” He cleared his throat. “Evie, you taught me how to shop and cook and eat. You stood by me when I stumbled—and you know I stumbled a lot—then you picked me up each time. You shared everything you knew about training, fitness, equipment, mental preparation, physiology, and race strategy. Basically, you held my hand for six long months until I got my act together! My health and happiness are because of you. I owe you my life.”

She shook her head, reaching for a strip of bathroom tissue to blow her nose. “I care about you. You’re my friend. And all that stuff, the nutrition and training stuff, it is just what I do.”

“Right on, sister. Right on.”

C
razy-crackers-reckless-stupid insanity. That’s what M.J.’s night had been made of.

And now it was six forty-two a.m. and she sat in the greenroom at the Boston CBS affiliate with her politically brain-damaged boss and his ice bitch of a soon-to-be ex-wife.

M.J.’s letter of resignation was, at that very moment, burning a hole in her briefcase.

The situation was pretty clear. If M.J. couldn’t pull a game-changer out of her ass in the next ten minutes, Richard would be destroying her career before a live television audience, Tamara at his side. Apparently, after her unpleasant visit to his office last night, M.J.’s boss was spurred to action. The FBI had a major breakthrough with evidence, and Richard decided he would never forgive himself if he didn’t contribute to the momentum. He decided to go public first thing in the morning.

Richard now sat across the room from M.J., wearing a suit slightly too big for his post-surgery body. She noticed that instead of a dress shirt and tie, he wore a polo shirt with an open collar. That was his signal to the country that he wasn’t on official business, simply there as a regular Joe. Richard hadn’t spoken in the last few
minutes, so M.J. knew he was rehearsing the talking points in his mind. She could just imagine:

Unknowingly, I fathered a child with a young scheduling assistant a few years back:

1. Tragically, the mother has died;

2. Fortunately, I won custody of the product of that union;

3. Shockingly, the child has been kidnapped!

Now, I will do anything to get her back safely.

And, most importantly, he would add this:

I am not here to answer questions or respond to speculation about my political career. I am only here to ask—no, beg—for everyone’s help in locating my daughter.

M.J. had already tried to talk some sense into him, of course. First, she tried on the phone. Next, it was at the Jefferson, on the private jet to Boston, then in the limo, and again while coming in the back entrance to the studio. But his mind was made up. He was about to kill his reelection bid and snuff out any chance for a vice-presidential nom—over some kid.

She silenced a groan of frustration that began in her toes and rose up into her throat. How dare he keep her from the kind of power she deserved, the kind she was promised? She longed for the delicious feel of digging her fingers into his neck and cutting off his air.

A production assistant stuck his head through the greenroom door. “Five minutes, Congressman and Mrs. Wahlman. You can follow me to the set.”

“Just a minute.” M.J. held up her hand. “Go on. We’ll be there.” She closed the door in the kid’s face.

“Don’t do it, Richard. One last time, I’m begging you.”

He shook his head. “I have to.”

“See, that’s where you’re wrong. You don’t
have
to do anything. You’re Richard Wahlman, four-term congressman from Massachusetts, cosponsor of groundbreaking debt ceiling legislation, chairman of the Ways and Means subcommittee on oversight, philanthropist—”

“Father.”

M.J. closed her eyes. This was a fucking catastrophe!

It was almost as if he didn’t care! Out of utter desperation, M.J. looked to Tamara. The oh so chic blonde sat in the corner with a glass of sparkling water balanced on her bony Lanvin-covered knee. She wanted no part of this.

Ha! If M.J. thought about strangling Richard, then Tamara was probably fantasizing about breaking his neck, slapping him silly, and cutting off his Johnson—just to warm up! Not for the first time, M.J. wondered whether the roles within that union were backward—Tamara should have served in Congress while Richard hosted dinner parties and charity fund-raisers. Things might have turned out better.

The limo ride to the studio had been, by far, the most cringe-worthy twenty minutes of M.J.’s life. Unfortunately, she had been privy to everything the Wahlmans had said to each other. How could she avoid it? Was she supposed to open the sliding window, crawl headfirst through the divider, and sit up front with the driver? She needed a hot shower and a tequila slammer after the experience.

“This is utterly ridiculous, Dick.” That’s how it had started. Tamara had said that as she finished off what was left of her second early-morning scotch, leaving a shiny pink lipstick stamp along the rim of the glass. “This is a debacle. At this point in your career? Really, Richard? Couldn’t you have found some other way to help look for this pitiful urchin of yours? Perhaps walk through fields with neighbors and their tracking hounds or something? Anything that didn’t involve dragging the Derrick family name through the muck?”

“I told you—this isn’t about the Derricks.”

“Oh, darling, you are my very favorite pathological narcissist.”

“Stop it, Tamara.”

“You truly don’t give a rat’s ass about the impact this may have on Derrick Brand Restaurants, which I find ironic, since you would be nothing without us.”

“That’s enough.”

“I despise you for this, Dick.”

“You’ve despised me for twenty-five years.”

“True.” She had thrown a few ice cubes into the glass and freshened her drink. “Well, at least now you have the baby I could never give you.”

“I won’t even respond to that.”

“But why this way, Dick? Why can’t you deal with this problem quietly? Why are you making a spectacle of yourself ten weeks before the election? Why are you throwing away your shot at the vice presidency? Do you want to ruin your life? Is that what’s going on? Are you just so insecure about yourself that you want the world to know your penis works?”

M.J. had contemplated hurling herself out the window at that point.

Richard had kept his fury bottled in, however. No wonder he’d had a heart attack. “I simply want to find Christina.”

“How noble of you.”

“It’s the right goddamn thing to do!”

Tamara had blinked in surprise at her husband’s sudden outburst, then turned her claws on M.J. “This is your idea, I take it?”

It was a good thing M.J. had long ago perfected the art of saying “fuck off” without using the word “fuck” or the word “off.” She had smiled pleasantly at Tamara. “As much as I appreciate your confidence in my skills, I assure you, you couldn’t be more wrong. I’ve advised Richard to keep the matter as private as possible. I think what he’s doing is a horrible mistake. There is a chance some
of his base would admire how he’s stepped up to his responsibility here, but that is a gigantic risk.” M.J. had then pretended to be checking her text messages.

Tamara had laughed again. “Oh, I find that hard to believe, Mary Jane. I’ve known you for a long time, and I’ve seen you use anything and anyone for political gain.” She had looked toward her husband and cocked her head to the side. “So let me take a wild stab at it, darling—you think voters will see that behind that nasty old scar of yours is a heart of gold. Is that it? Just weeks out of the hospital and Congressman Richard Wahlman is willing to sacrifice his health and his reputation to find his long-lost bastard child? Or maybe you’re proving to the world that you’re still healthy and vibrant enough to be the parent of a toddler!” She raised her glass. “Fabulous.”

“Shut up, Tamara.”

“Go to hell, Dick.”

They had ridden in silence for about five minutes before Richard said to Tamara, “You don’t need to say anything today. Just look supportive.”

Tamara had drained her glass. “Of course, darling. We both know how good I am at faking it.”

Now the three of them sat in the greenroom like cattle penned before slaughter, the seconds ticking by, and M.J. knew this was her last chance to stop the freak show.

“Linking your name to the girl is unnecessary. The FBI has solid leads now. They will find her without the endorsement of Congressman Richard Wahlman. Once she’s home you can quietly maintain custody and go on to have a lovely life with your daughter, without destroying everything you’ve worked for all these years.”

He stood and smoothed his shirt. “Neither of you can possibly understand where I’m coming from.” He turned his steady gaze toward M.J. “I know this will make things difficult for you professionally, which is something you clearly don’t deserve. You’ve always gone above and beyond. I appreciate that.”

On his way out the door, Richard stopped and gave her a stiff hug. It was the only time in eighteen years he’d touched her.

“Stop.”

“I’ve made up my mind.”

“Richard, seriously. There’s something you need to know before you go on the air.”

A frantic voice echoed down the hallway. “Congressman and Mrs. Wahlman! We need you on the set!”

Richard was clearly irritated. “Your story will have to wait, M.J. Call me tomorrow.” He held out his hand to Tamara. “Darling?”

The power couple met up with the production assistant, who hurried them along to the sound tech. They were clipped with their lapel mics and ushered out onto the set.

M.J. hated him at that moment. Rage scalded the inside of her throat. Her brain felt like it was in danger of exploding. That idiot! There wasn’t enough money inside the beltway to pay for the kind of dedication she’d shown Richard Wahlman, but in the end it didn’t even matter to him. All he cared about was the kid.

Someday, he would learn to what lengths M.J. had gone on his behalf five years ago, and on that day he would completely lose his shit. Richard was so oblivious that he believed his perky little paramour quit her job and slipped out of town without a peep because she was homesick. How simpleminded could a man be?

M.J. told the pregnant girl that Richard insisted she have an abortion, and handed her six hundred dollars in an envelope. Next, M.J. made vague threats about how some young women in Washington who found themselves in her situation were never seen or heard from again. Oh, how Amanda cried. She threw the money back at M.J. and slammed her door. And she was gone the next day.

M.J. smiled to herself at the memory. When Richard found all this out, he would hate M.J. as much as she
hated him. Funny how one little girl could flip the script like this.

She gathered her briefcase and headed for the TV studio’s back door. M.J. wasn’t sure what her next step would be. Maybe she’d take a week off. Start packing up her apartment. Or maybe she’d go somewhere—she hadn’t taken a real vacation since she got to Washington.

Her thoughts went to poor little Amanda McGuinness—just another exceptional girl who hit the Hill with big dreams and open legs. Surely she didn’t deserve what she got. M.J. had actually liked her. She was high-energy, cheerful, and the first in line to take on extra tasks. But what was done was done. There was no such thing as a do-over. And she regretted nothing. As everyone knew, the rules were different in Washington.

Above and beyond? Richard had no fucking idea.

*   *   *

He woke to a headache lit up by a bolt of lightning and head-butted by a crash of thunder. His scaredy-cat dogs hurled themselves onto the bed for protection, and somebody’s bony elbow dug right into Clancy’s diaphragm.

“C’mon, guys. You’re too big for this. How many times do I have to tell you?” He snapped his fingers and pointed to the floor, and, to their credit, they jumped off without complaint, though their ears were pinned back and tails curled up between their legs. After giving his face a quick scouring with his hands, Clancy rolled over to check his cell phone—five thirty-two a.m., Sunday of festival week, Island Day—and it was raining like a son of a bitch.

But that wasn’t his biggest problem. Today was the day he had to deal with Evie.

Just then it dawned on him—he’d dreamed of her. Clancy let his head fall on the pillow and allowed the images to take him back. Evie was running down the beach, her laughter clear and joyous in the wind. Her little nephew giggled as Tripod and Earl nudged and licked him. And that was pretty much the whole dream—
no plot, no Freudian symbols, no screaming for help, nothing even remotely sexual. It was simply Clancy being aware of that moment and how good it felt to share it with Evie and Chris. He felt lucky in the dream. He actually felt happy—and lucky in love.

He’d had enough of these dreams. He didn’t have the spare brain energy to deal with them right now.

He jumped up, made coffee, and got dressed. He was out the door by six—both skittish dogs in tow—and at his desk by six fifteen, pools of water forming by his feet. It never failed—at least one day during the Mermaid Festival was a partial washout, but if it happened on Island Day it was a major problem.

Two hundred craftspeople, artists, and food vendors descended on Main Street on Island Day, and carnival attractions occupied the dock and museum lot. In decent weather, Island Day would be the most crowded and popular of all festival week events. Thousands of day-trippers arrived in the morning and left in the evening, exhausted, stuffed with lobster rolls and fried blueberry pies, and holding their just-purchased watercolor painting, carved jade necklace, or giant origami dolphin. But if a storm front moved in and didn’t blow over, a lot of people would lose a lot of money today. And the Bayberry municipal government would miss out on a crap-ton of tax revenue.

Clancy’s head pounded. He turned on his preferred early-morning TV news, deciding he would listen in while he finished paperwork.

“Morning, Chief.” Chip stood just outside the office door, soaked through to the skin. “What are you doing here so early?”

He pointed to Tripod and Earl spooning together in their dog bed in the corner. “My alarm clocks went off early.”

Chip laughed. “Poor fellas. Yeah, it’s a loud one—that’s for sure.”

Clancy started in on the stacks of work on his desk.
Though a lot of the police station’s reporting was now completed digitally, they were still slaves to a variety of forms, charts, and reports—all of which required his signature. “So what’s happening, Chip? Busy night?”

He shook his head. “Pretty quiet, but the evening shift had to break up a party on a private yacht down at the marina—bunch of investment bankers.”

“Naturally.”

“We think they tossed the evidence overboard before we got there, you know, the standard rock-in-a-baggie trick.”