Within Reach (33 page)

Jeff went still for a minute, not because of what she had said but because of the fact that she had said it. She had offered him a part of her work that she would at one time have guarded religiously. He felt very good.

“Have there been reports of the seepage before?”

“Oh, yes. For years officials have known the Chesapeake had problems. It was once thought to be the nation’s most productive body of water, but that’s changing. Industrial wastes from Pennsylvania flow in through the Susquehanna. Toxic kepone spills in through the James from Richmond and Norfolk. Even treated sewage adds chlorine toxicity to the bay.” She forced herself on. “The particular chemical plant I’m looking at is in Baltimore harbor. Its owner has passed around enough money to keep its spills under raps.”

“Do you have evidence?”

“Of the seepage? The Army Corps of Engineers has documented it.”

“What about the money? Any evidence?”

Cilla looked up at him because his questions were coming strong and fast. She felt a habitual wariness rear its head. Jeffrey read her instantly.

“I’m sorry. That’s the interrogator in me at work. And I’m not this way because of my job. The reverse is more accurate. I’m good at my job because I am this way. But it’s just me now, Cilla. Just me. It won’t go any further. Please. Trust me.”

She saw the sincerity in his expression and knew that if they were to have any hope for a future together, she had to do as he asked. She nodded. “We’re getting evidence of the money, but it’s slow. Things have been well hidden. We have to be careful because if word gets around that we’re on to something, doors will suddenly close on us.”

“Sounds familiar. I’m having the same problem.” In general terms—and with an ingrained caution—he outlined the investigation he was undertaking into high-tech espionage. “We know that Bulgaria received the goods. We know that they came from Austria. We even identified the Austrian firm that did the shipping, then nothing. There has to be an originating American firm, but we can’t find it. Records have been destroyed; storefronts have been physically demolished. It’s frustrating as hell when you
know
what’s been done is illegal but you can’t clinch it with hard evidence.”

Cilla considered his frustration, then spoke with reference to her own. “That’s the worst part, I think. Time passes and you know that the public good is in danger, but you have a responsibility to do and say nothing until you can back your words up.”

“But you can’t give up because you
know
. You
know
. And there’s a responsibility in that, too. Maybe it’s a good guy complex and corny as hell, but damn, it gets into your blood.”

She slanted him an understanding smile. “I know. And it’s nice to know you know.”

He returned the smile, surprised that the sharing had been relatively painless. “Any more word from your sex maniac?”

“Which one?”

He pinched her bottom. “The one who called you that day wanting to talk about power and lust?”

“Oh. That one.” She sighed. “No. No more calls. I did meet this guy, though. It was at a diplomatic reception. He was kind of standing by the wall looking disgruntled, like he wasn’t terribly happy to be there but he just couldn’t stay away. When he started talking to me, I could have sworn the voice was the same.”

“As the one on the phone?”

“Mmmm.” She shrugged. “I’m probably wrong. I mean, the telephone usually mangles tones.”

“Not that much. What did he have to say at the reception?”

“Oh, he railed on about the power of the wealthy and how you had to play their game if you wanted to survive in this town.”

“He’s right.”

“But he sure was angry.”

“People who have to play by others’ rules usually are. What was his position?”

“He mumbled something about working in one of the departments. State or Labor, maybe Commerce …I’m not sure which, and when I started to ask him more, he turned the conversation around to me. He just loved the fact that I’m with the press. He started asking all kinds of questions about the glory in that. I couldn’t get away fast enough.”

Jeffrey chuckled and hugged her closer. How does it feel to be on the other end of the firing line?”

“Pret-ty annoying. I like to do the asking, not the telling.”

“Seems to me you’ve done a little of each tonight.”

She smiled then and stretched up to kiss him. “I have at that, haven’t I?”

“Was it painful?”

“Was it for you?”

“There you go, asking the questions again. Cilla, Cilla, Cilla, what am I going to do with you?”

Sliding her mouth to his ear, she proceeded to make several very naughty suggestions, after which Jeffrey had neither time nor strength to ask another thing.

thirteen

e
LEANOR RECOVERED SLOWLY BUT STEADILY. Danica visited her often, driving to Connecticut and back twice a week, always on days when she was sure that her father would be otherwise occupied. She told herself that her mother would appreciate the company more on those days, but deep inside she knew that she didn’t want another confrontation with her father.

To her surprise, she found herself more relaxed with her mother on each successive visit. While the time she had spent with Eleanor at the hospital had been devoted to supporting her in a time of great physical insecurity, the days she spent with her at home were more ones of discovery that the woman she had always thought to be merely an appendage of William Marshall was a thinking, feeling being on her own. They talked of many things, and as Danica gained confidence, she began to ask about her mother’s life.

“Didn’t it ever get to you—the steady stream of political functions?”

They were relaxing in the solarium, though the sun was pale and the warmth primarily from baseboard heating units. Eleanor sat on a lounge chair with a blanket covering her legs. Her weak right hand lay quietly in her lap, but she gestured freely with her left, and with the feeling returning to her face, she spoke with only the barest hint of impediment. Mercifully, her mind had been unaffected by the stroke.

“I loved them. Right from the start, I found them exciting. You have to remember that I came from modest means. Things you were weaned on I never had. I suppose at the beginning it was a novelty. But then, I had lived through William’s first campaign with him. You were too young to realize it, but he ran for Congress with a few strong backers, a whole lot of determination and not much else. So there was a certain triumph in going to Washington and taking a place we had earned.”

“You say ‘we.’”

“And I mean it. Oh, I’m sure William could have made it on his own, but I worked every bit as hard as he did. I was on the campaign trail with him. I spoke at women’s luncheons while he spoke at men’s. On the day of his election I was every bit as tired as he was.”

“I hadn’t realized,” Danica said slowly. “All I knew was that you were never here. I guess I didn’t know much about what, exactly, you were doing.”

Eleanor brooded on that for a minute. “My fault, perhaps. I didn’t think you’d want to know the details. You were so young, and we were so busy. I felt it would be better to keep you here where we knew you were safe. Then, in time, there were other things we wanted for you.”

“Tennis.”

“That, and school. There’s no place for a young child in politics. We were constantly in and out, doing one thing or another.”

“Not all politicians’ wives are that way.”

“True. And maybe I was wrong to leave you behind. I worried about that.”

“You did?”

“Any mother would,” Eleanor answered defensively. “But I had to make choices, just like everyone else. On the one hand, I was William’s wife. On the other, I was your mother.”

“You opted for the first.”

Eleanor looked off toward the yard. “It wasn’t as simple as that, Danica. There was a third party involved. Me. I had to think of what I wanted in life. I had to look down the road and ask myself where I’d be ten or twenty years hence. I knew that one day you’d be off on your own, just as you are now, and that you wouldn’t need me. I realized that William always would. Your father’s position is very secure now, but I like to think that I still complement it. Maybe what I’ve done over the years is to cement my position in a personal bureaucracy. But it hasn’t been bad, because I like what I’m doing.” When Danica still looked skeptical, she continued. “I know that you think I’m a hanger-on—”

“No—”

“Maybe not using that word, and you’re not alone. To the outsider, it might look like I’m nothing more than an ornament hanging on William’s arm. Only the insider knows that what I do, that what any dedicated political wife does is important. We offer the eye in the storm, the quiet presence at the end of every day. Sometimes we don’t ask questions, but even then that’s what our men need. In social situations we act as a buffer. We can be charming and diplomatic. We can ease a roughness that may exist between our men and others. I think,” she said with a deep sigh, “that like many women, we’re highly underestimated.” Then she laughed, but her jaw sagged. “This is wearing me out. I think I’m overdoing it.”

Feeling quickly contrite, Danica handed Eleanor the glass of water that stood on a nearby table. “I’m sorry. I should have stopped you, but I enjoyed listening. Why didn’t you ever tell me these things before?”

Eleanor sipped through a straw, then rested her head back against the lounge and spoke very quietly. “I guess because you never asked, and because we’ve never spent much time together, and because it’s taken a long time for us to see each other as equals. Maybe, too, it’s because I realize that I won’t be around forever and there are some things I want to share with you before I go.”

Leaning forward, Danica gave her mother a hug. She couldn’t speak because her throat was tight, and it wasn’t only the thought of Eleanor’s mortality that saddened her. It was also the fact that there were some things she wanted to share with her mother, too, but she didn’t yet dare.

Danica saw Michael every Thursday night. They ate at different restaurants each week, made love at different hotels. She never stayed the night, though, and while Michael tried desperately not to pressure her, his frustration grew. For a time he sublimated, throwing himself that much more deeply into both his teaching and his writing. It worked, though the end result was self-defeating. He finished the book and sent it off to New York shortly before Christmas. At the same time, his classes ended. Since his appointment had been only for the half-year seminar, he had nothing left but to grade the term papers he had assigned in lieu of exams.

Exhausted by the pace he had kept, discouraged by the fact that his love for Danica was growing even as his hopes that she would divorce Blake were fading, he decided that he needed to get away. Not to do research for another book. Simply to get away.

He was in the process of studying travel literature one Monday morning in mid-January when his door-bell rang. Rusty reached the door before he did. “It’s okay, boy.” He scratched the dog’s ears as he opened the door. Then, in a flash, he knew it wasn’t okay. He had never formally met the man standing before him, but the face was familiar enough to even the most impartial of observers, of which group he was definitely not one.

“Michael Buchanan?”

“Senator Marshall.”

“You’ve been expecting me?”

“No. I recognize your face from newspapers and television.” He could see no resemblance to Danica, but perhaps he simply chose not to. “I think I assumed that one day we’d meet.”

William Marshall stood sternly, with a small portfolio beneath his arm. “May I come in?”

Nodding, Michael stepped aside. A glance toward the drive revealed a rental car—it was too small and common a model to have actually belonged to this United States senator—and no other driver. He deduced that William had flown into Portland and driven down himself. It was not terribly promising if he had hoped for an amicable chitchat, but then, he hadn’t. There could be only one reason for William Marshall’s seeking him out, and William, it appeared, had no intention of mincing words.

“I have with me,” he began, “some photographs I believe you would like to see.” He had already unclasped the portfolio and was pulling out a handful of prints.

Michael took them, looked first at one, then the next and the next, all the while struggling to contain the nausea that had begun to churn in his stomach.

“Where did you get these?” he asked, though his voice was hoarse and clearly revealed his shock.

“They were taken by a private investigator.”

Michael’s words came slowly and were laden with disbelief and disdain. “You hired an investigator to follow your own daughter?”

“And you,” William added remorselessly. “Aren’t you going to ask why?”

“I don’t think I need to do that,” Michael answered. “The pictures speak for themselves. The fact that you had them taken says the rest.”

“Then you’re smarter than I thought. Not that I’d have expected less from John Buchanan’s son—” he pointed to the pictures, which hung limply in Michael’s hand “—though you really were pretty stupid pulling this stunt.”

“My father has no place in this. You’re talking to me.”

“That’s exactly right, and I want you to listen. You’re to stay away from my daughter. You’re not to see her ever again.”

“I’m not a young boy, Senator, and your daughter isn’t a child. Do you really think you can lay down laws and have people obey them just like that?”

“I’m not the one laying down the laws you’ve violated. You’ve been having an affair with another man’s wife. That’s adultery.”

There was no point trying to deny it. The photos in his hand showed him kissing Danica in her car, showed him holding her hand under what he’d thought was cover of a dimly lit restaurant booth, showed Danica entering a hotel room, then himself passing through the same door. Short of capturing the two of them in bed, the photos were condemning.

“I know exactly what it is. I also know that your daughter is stuck in a miserable marriage and that I’ve been able to give her a love she’s never had.”