Unfinished Business (20 page)

“They're gonna have to take me ‘as is' tonight,” Mark said grimly. “More substance than form, I hope.” And he started past her.

“Yes,” Bitsi said slowly, surveying them coolly. “Only…”—she paused, milking the moment, before continuing with a demure, “Well, maybe it's not my place to say anything.”

“Speak. You know I value your opinion.” Mark said, but he was already making his way toward the entrance doors.

“Well…” Bitsi continued, and her normally sharp voice had a coy edge to it. “And this is only a suggestion. I wouldn't want anyone to think I'm
racist
or
anything, but you might want to let go of Ms. Johnson's hand. I mean, we already have the implications of the fax to deal with, and”—she giggled a snide little giggle that wasn't a giggle at all—“she
can
walk for herself, right?”

There was a split second when Mark's face clamped in on itself and Erica thought Bitsi might get a taste of her boss's anger. As both women watched, Mark's face seemed to undergo half a dozen permutations as he put his aide's words through every possible intended meaning and a few that she might not have intended at all.

“I think I'll hold on to it a while longer, if it's all the same to you, Bits,” he said in a low, calm voice, while those penetrating blue eyes seemed to measure the little woman from her tip to her toes.

“You're the boss, Boss,” Bitsi said lightly, but her eyes crawled over Erica with a new intensity. “Now let's get a move on. The people are waiting.”

 

The room was packed with white people—more white people than Erica could remember seeing in her life. Back in D.C. there were white people, true, but there were also Hispanic people and Asian people, African people and Jewish people—all kinds of people. Just about everywhere you went you'd see people of all different creeds and colors, mixing together in all kinds of ways.

“We're not in Chocolate City anymore,” she murmured under her breath, looking around at the whiteness of this gathering. She craned her neck toward the back of the room and saw Angelique, sitting next to Chase Alexander, looking expectantly at the podium, the lone brown speck in the white sea that was the room.

As they entered, the whole room fell silent. There was none of the murmuring and muttering that had characterized the atmosphere in the high-school gym. It was quiet, reverent, as though she had walked into the church sanctuary in the middle of a service, rather than a political event in its multipurpose room. Erica felt suddenly uncertain, suddenly self-conscious. Every ugly thing she'd ever heard about Southern white folks crossed her mind. For a quick instant, a movie played in her head featuring nooses and lynch mobs, and she was pretty sure she shrank a little closer to Newman until she was able to clear it from her mind.

“I'm sorry I'm late, everyone. I had to retrieve our guest. You men know how our lovely ladies are,” he drawled in a voice that exuded charm and he raised his arm to show the assembly their joined hands. “Folks, this is Miss Erica Johnson, the lady you've been readin' about, or maybe you've seen her on TV. She challenged me to answer some hard questions about the war, and accepted my challenge to hear the other side. I know some of you received something on your fax machines and you might have some questions. But we'll talk about that in a minute. For now, I'd like y'all to show her such a thorough dose of Southern hospitality she won't want to go back to Washington ever again.”

These words were met with a roar of thunderous applause that filled Erica's ears like a sudden wave of love.

Still holding on to her, Mark limped his way down the aisles toward a little stage at the top of the room, interrupted every few steps by men and women who leaned out of their seats to shake his hand or wrap him in an embrace. To Erica's surprise, some of this
welcome was extended to her as well, as men and women both stood to offer her their hands or arms. And it was then, and only then, that Mark Newman released her hand.

At last, when the applause had died and they'd made their way to the little dais, Mark accepted a microphone and parked himself in a chair. He shook hands with a man in a black short-sleeved shirt and white collar who introduced himself to Erica as “Reverend Knull,” and with a middle-aged Congress woman who had an abundance of curly hair that looked like it had been last cut in the 1980s. Erica shook both their hands and sat in the metal folding chair they assigned her, smoothing her skirt a little and adjusting the folds of the T-shirt she had selected for the evening: If the people will lead, their leaders will follow.

Mark made a short speech, sounding stronger and healthier and more alive with every word he spoke. This time, however, he addressed the issue of the fax without taking any questions about it or their relationship, sounding annoyed with the whole thing.

I'm hurting his career
, Erica thought. And instead of triumphant, the knowledge made her feel sad on so many levels that she wanted to burst into tears.

Hypocrite
, she heard Angelique muttering in her ear. Erica glanced into the audience, but Angelique was giving Mark Newman her full attention and didn't seem to be all that interested in her best friend, who was quietly dying on the podium.

Because, sitting there, in front of all these good, churchgoing voters, Erica realized the woman was absolutely right.

She had fallen completely for Mark Newman, wrongheaded politics and all.

Right when, from all appearances, he'd reached the opposite conclusion about
her
.

“All right, folks,” Mark said, settling himself into his chair and leaning toward the crowd. “I know you all have been waiting and you need to get on home in time to tuck in the kids. Some of y'all have livestock to check on, too, so I'll make my updates brief so we can get to your questions. Here's what I've been doing in Washington…”

Erica couldn't stop herself from staring at him, listening quietly while his voice gained energy and strength. He talked about farm legislation, conservation, taxes, and once again, she found herself impressed. He was wrong on the substance—and from time to time she had to fold her lips tight and remind herself that this was his show, not hers—but he was certainly knowledgeable and he managed to convey complicated concepts to his audience without talking down to them. When she looked away from him out into the sea of faces, it was obvious that his constituents were eating him up with a spoon. She peered around the room, taking them in. Most were between the ages of thirty and sixty, almost all paired off in couples, though here and there were the stray singles. And in a far corner, she saw a familiar-looking blonde head that she could have sworn belonged to Mary. But regardless of age and hair color, attire or education, all had the look of the middlingly prosperous, and of course they were all white.

Typical Republicans
, Erica decided, finding her anger to hide her pain. She made a mental note to send these people a snapshot of the rest of the country just so they'd know there were black and brown, yellow and red people in it.

Then, from somewhere out in the crowd, a woman wailed. Instantly the room went still. Heads turned
toward her as she buried her face in a tissue. A red-faced man with salt-and-pepper hair wearing a pair of faded jeans patted her shoulder awkwardly, looking as if he was only seconds from dissolving into tears himself.

“Maude and John Bunter. Their son was killed in Iraq,” the Congresswoman whispered in Mark's direction. “They just found out a couple of days ago. Body hasn't even made it home yet.”

But Mark was already moving. He moved slowly off the dais and down the aisle toward the couple, the soft
squish
of the tip of his cane countering the woman's anguished sobs.

Erica watched, like everyone else in the room, as he made a wounded soldier's slow progress toward the couple, watched as the people seated nearby yielded their places until Mark was standing right beside Maude and John Bunter.

“I grieve your loss.” Mark's voice was soft, but it resonated in the multipurpose room. “All of us in this room, all of America grieves your loss,” he continued gently. “Your son's sacrifice was not in vain. His dedication, his patriotism, his commitment to freedom. None of us will ever forget those things.”

Maude Bunter nodded, tears rolling down her cheeks. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“Yes,” John Bunter added in a strained voice, offering Mark his hand. “Thank you, sir.”

Mark stared at the bereaved father's hand for a moment. Then to their surprise, he bent down and enveloped the couple in an embrace. “I'm so sorry,” Erica thought she heard him say. “He was a good kid.”

Erica looked around the room. Many were weeping openly; others had their eyes closed as if in prayer. The others on the dais were staring at Mark, who still held the couple in an embrace, as if waiting. A feeling
tugged at Erica's heart, and before she knew it she was standing with the microphone in her hand. From the back of the room, she saw Bitsi's face shift into an expression of horror, but she didn't let that stop her.

She opened her mouth.

She hadn't been sure what she was going to sing, only that she was going to. It was as if the voice of God was speaking directly to her heart right then, joining her hatred of the war with the spirit of grief in the room. And God had a song picked out.

“Be not dismayed, whate'er betide.” Erica heard the old song come from a place deep inside her. “God will take care of you.”

There was a split second when all of the eyes in the room turned toward her in surprise, and Erica wondered if she'd just made a terrible mistake. Even Mark's head turned toward her with an expression Erica couldn't decipher etched into the strong lines around his forehead and lips.

Then Angelique stood from her place at the back of the room and joined Erica in the old hymn.

“Beneath his wings of love, abide. God will take care of you,” she sang, loud and slightly off-key. An instant later, Chase popped up beside her and to her surprise, the man had a lovely tenor that harmonized with Erica's soprano. And when other voices joined hers from the back of the room, the atmosphere in the room changed. And soon the whole room had filled with voices, joined together in the song as one.

Mark made his way back to the dais and Erica heard his voice, singing in a tone-deaf bass, as he took his place again. He cut a glance at her as the song concluded, and Erica saw his lips were curled into that little smile again. But there was something different in his eyes. Something warm and appreciative and…

Erica felt her heart do a funny little skipping, dipping thing that couldn't be a good sign.

“Thank you, Erica,” he said softly. “I think we needed to be reminded that we're all in God's hands. And I know we all pray for the Bunters, for their son Abel. And we all pray for our fighting men and women, wherever they are.”

“Amen,” Erica whispered.

“All right,” Mark said, briskly transitioning the meeting yet again. “I know y'all got questions and concerns. We've done enough talking from up here. Time to hear from you folks. We're your servants, remember? It's just like my friend Ms. Johnson's shirt says: ‘If the people will lead, their leaders will follow.'” He reached into his jacket pocket and produced a small notebook and pen. “Tell me.”

He could have just dropped her off, but something took over his reason and he dragged his bum leg up the five steps into the old Victorian home. And he would have left her after she crossed the threshold of the bedroom reserved for his special guests, a sunny room overlooking North Street with a wide bay window, huge four-poster bed, and a little sitting room off to the side. But he definitely should have left before Erica Johnson opened the door and led him inside.

Unfinished business was banging at the front of his brain, tingling down the back of his spine, brushing at the corners of his consciousness.

Every minute she was near him, the feeling grew stronger, harder to deny, harder to laugh about, harder to dismiss. But tonight, tonight when she'd burst into song and transformed a moment into something so intimate and so beautiful…

Mark felt the last of his resistance evaporate. He would have this woman in his arms tonight. He would have this woman's body entwined with his tonight. He would have this woman's essence joined
with his tonight or willingly die with the effort.

“Well,” she was saying, and he knew she felt it, too, “do you want me to come with you to the rally tomorrow?”

The sound of her voice faded away, and all he could hear was his own heart beating. He watched her lips, full and inviting, making words that evaporated unheard as desire thrilled along every nerve in his body. He closed his eyes and inhaled. Her image was still imprinted on his eyelids, the smell of her perfume filled his nostrils.

“Mark? Did you hear me? Do you want me to—”

I want you. I want you tomorrow, I want you the day after that…I want you. Right now.

Words weren't required when actions spoke volumes. Mark let his instinct take over, trusting it was the right act at the right time.

“Yes,” he said, letting the cane fall. He reached for her, leaning into her for support as both his arms encircled her. “Yes, Erica. I want you,” he murmured, as those bottomless brown eyes rose to his face, full of love, full of pride. “My Erica,” he whispered.

“Oh, Mark,” she breathed into his ear. “Mark.”

It was all the encouragement he needed. He pressed her closer to him, caressing the soft curves of her body as he buried his hungry mouth in hers, unleashing the passion that had lain dormant inside him since a mugger's bullet had taken Katharine from him years before.