Gathering String (22 page)

He smiled, and came up behind her as she turned back to the pile of negatives. “I was surprised to see you come in,” he murmured. There was something about a darkroom that always made people lower their voices. His big hand came up and gently massaged the back of her neck, and she gratefully relaxed against him. “You cut loose a little last night. I was worried that maybe you’d start looking for a tattoo parlor after that fourth glass.”

She shrugged. “I guess I’d forgotten what happens when I start work at the butt-crack of dawn and don’t let up.”

He nuzzled the soft, fine curls. “Ah, so that was it. I thought maybe you were upset.” She turned in his arms and looked up at him questioningly. “You seemed funny last night …” His voice trailed off.

She shook her head. “Just no food and a long day in the cold.” She grinned. “Good thing no one took advantage of me.”

One of his eyebrows shot up. “I was hoping it's not too late.” He lifted her easily to the workbench and reached over her head to hit the lock to the darkroom door.

Sam Waterman went straight from the airport to the newsroom. He knew the newest candidate threw the coverage of the race up for grabs, and he suspected Erickson would be the one to go the distance. Tami Fuller was going to flame out with some kind of strident-voiced
faux pas
and Morton was stiff as a board and not as interesting. Sam was banking on raising his own profile and job security by sticking with Erickson.

Politifix ran profiles on every candidate, and with Erickson’s late entry into the race it needed to be done quickly. Sam was good when it came to quick hits, and he walked into the newsroom declaring he wanted the assignment. His editors must have agreed because less than an hour after his arrival, he was pulled into the conference room with Mike Dodson and Steve Johnson and told he’d been tapped for the job. It was a routine meeting except for one awkward moment.

“OK,” Dodson said, “Watch him work, nail a lot of his campaign staff in New Hampshire and then head right back to Iowa to gather some string. There’s his family and the state legislators, of course. Any good ideas when it comes to friends or the people in the town where he grew up?”

Johnson spoke up right away. “There’s a good tale about him and that local newspaper guy, Westphal?” Sam nodded, even as his mouth drew down at the name. “There was one of those multiple-fatality accidents back when Westphal was just a college kid that wiped out his immediate family. Erickson helped him get through it.”

Dodson nodded. “Good. That’ll pull the heartstrings. Now, who hates the guy?”

Johnson and Dodson laughed, but before they moved on Sam knew he had better speak up. He swallowed to keep the embarrassment from his voice. “You both should know that Westphal is married to Tess Benedict.”

Dodson looked nonplussed, and shifted his gaze to Johnson, who was staring hard at Sam. “Who?” Dodson asked.

“Tess Benedict,” Johnson answered. “She was a photographer at the
Tribune
when Sam and I were both there. She left about a year before he did.”

“So?” Dodson had come to D.C. from New York, a transplant from
The
Times
. He clearly had missed the gossip.

Sam and Steve looked at each other, and then Johnson said carefully, “Well, she just used to work with Sam an awful lot, that’s all.”

“Uh-huh,” Dodson glanced from one to the other, a little confused. “Her being a former colleague wouldn’t have a bearing on the story.” He shot a grin at Sam. “Another former Triblet who hates your guts, eh, Sammy?” Before Sam could think of a reply Dodson asked, “What’s she doing now?”

“She’s at the
Record
,” Johnson answered.

“Actually,” Sam said, “she’s freelancing now.”

Dodson shrugged. “All the better. See if she’ll shoot some pictures of Erickson when he’s at home in Des Moines. If she’s freelancing, she’ll know the drill.” He looked at his watch. “I’m late for a budget meeting. Anything else, or can you two finish up here?” He was halfway out the door before Sam or Steve could answer. After it closed, they sat quietly for a moment.

“Well,” Johnson started slowly, “Dodson’s right. It’s not like you’re doing a story on Westphal. He’s just a piece of the story on Erickson.”

“Anyway, it would be better if you didn’t have to explain anything to Dodson. Just treat Westphal like any other source. You can do that, right?”

“Of course I can do it,” Sam snapped. “I’m just covering my ass, that’s all.”

“Good,” Johnson said, sarcasm creeping into his voice. “It’s about time.”

The lights of the District reflected on the conference room windows when Sam finally left. Head down, he walked slowly back to his desk, fighting a rabbit-hole feeling of wonder that he’d begun the day in Iowa. He cringed as he tried to consider what needed to be done between now and when he caught that plane for Manchester tomorrow. He was happy to have the assignment, like everyone in the industry, relieved to have a job at all. The question was if he had the energy to run with it. And then, of course, there was the looming problem with Tess. He had a vague idea that he should call Higgins to see if he had a cell phone number for her. Maybe giving her a heads-up that he’d be calling her old man for an interview would help it go down better. Almost to his desk, he stopped short.

Long, long, legs, circled demurely just below the knee by an expensive wool skirt, almost blocked the entrance into his cubicle. Lifting his eyes, he saw that morning’s
Tribune
in front of face of the woman sitting in his chair. “That’s old news,” he had no doubt whom he’d find as he snatched the paper away. “And how the hell did you get past the guard without calling in for permission?”

His wife's coffee-brown eyes crinkled with amusement. “Can’t you even say ‘hello’ without swearing? Getting in wasn’t tough at all.” Judith's voice was deep, almost husky. “I just tossed him my business card and told him I was late for a meeting with some editors about a libel suit. Then I stood at the gate tapping my foot till he buzzed me through. Pretty easy to intimidate. Let’s hope no terrorists find out.”

Sam leaned against his desk wearily. “Honey, when it comes to terror strikes, you could give lessons.” He ran his hand through his hair and murmured, “God knows, you can scare the hell out of me.” She had been surprisingly upset over his abrupt departure for Iowa, and he had expected her to still be icy with anger.

“I’m taking that as a compliment,” she said, and he shrugged. Her appearances in the newsroom were rare. He noticed several co-workers glancing over, and that pain in the ass Bundy was openly staring.

“Isn’t this about the time you’re usually at the gym for your workout?” he asked. “Something up? Or did you just come by to cause a stir among the natives?”

She looked pleased that he’d noticed the attention they were getting. “Actually, I thought you might take a weary attorney to dinner. Give us a chance to talk.”

His eyebrows shot up. Between her work and his, he could often count on one hand the number of meals they ate together in a month, not counting the dinner parties she was always attending, and he couldn’t get out of. He said quietly, hoping not to be overheard. “It’s been a long time since I was your first choice for a dinner date.”

She sighed and rolled her eyes. “Look, are you free? Because I’ve been waiting to talk to you since Tuesday.” She started to reach into a side pocket of her bag for her BlackBerry, “So if you need to stay, then let’s mark out some time tomorrow …”

“No, let’s go,” he heard the escalating tension in her voice and decided now was not the time to explain he had to be at Reagan at 7:30 in the morning. Besides, he was really curious. Judith loathed deviating from her routine. That she had sought him out was so strange he had an uncomfortable sense of foreboding.

Gathering his things, helping Judith into her coat, he noticed Bundy lurking near the aisle, watching. As Judith turned to leave, Evie popped in front of her, extending her hand. “Judith Sampson! Sam always claims to be married, but most of us thought that was just a myth.”

Judith stopped in her tracks, her voice chilly. “I’m sorry, do we know each other?”

Evie’s snide smile went over her shoulder to Sam, clearly hoping to make him uncomfortable. “I’m Ev’alyn Bundy. Sam and I were both on the National desk at the
Trib
in the old days. Now we’re both covering the campaign.”

“Isn’t everyone at Politifix?” Judith asked dryly, as she clasped the hand and looked Evie over. Sam knew from the slightly raised eyebrow the verdict of her assessment: dress – dumpy; hair – mousy; jewelry – insignificant; name – unknown.

“Sure,” Evie dropped her voice with Judith’s hand, quelled by Judith's icy brown eyes. “Well … I just thought it might be a good time to say hello.”

“I’m sorry. We a have reservation.” Judith swept on, pulling on her red, Italian leather gloves.

At the elevator she stepped aside for Sam to press the down arrow and whispered, “OK, who was that? Some little snoop, or do you have a new fuck-buddy?”

His jaw set. “Just a snoop.”

“Thank God,” she stepped into the elevator in front of him. “I’d be mortified if you didn’t have better taste than that.”

They’d fascinated each other when they first met at a dinner in the Georgetown home of the
Tribune’s
publisher. With his sharp, swarthy, Jewish looks, Sam caught her attention. His irreverence, his epithets and his unabashed ambition intrigued her even more. He was riding high with a recent ASNE award, and was flattered by her attraction. She was pleased when he said he’d heard of attorney Judith Sampson and teased her about her reputation as a shark.

He drove her home that night. In the bedroom of her Alexandria townhouse, she reached up and unpinned her hair, the straight, dark mass falling loose around her shoulders. It seemed to pull all the color from her fine, pale skin. Her full lips, colored in crème de cassis, and those deep brown eyes were the only splashes of color. Her thin, aquiline nose was the perfect touch to a classically beautiful face. She still wore her business suit. Standing close, Sam slowly reached out and combed his fingers through the shining hair, raptly watching it fall away like heavy silk. Pulling her tight against him, he murmured, “Cleopatra dressed to go before the bar,” just before he kissed her.

It worked so well at first. Even after the wedding, they were both so busy that their little bit of time together was usually spent in breathless anticipation or exhaustion, on their way to or from bed. Judith was delighted that Sam never interfered with her plans. If her work demanded 70 hours a week, he didn’t turn a hair. He was usually working the same. If his job made it rare for him to join her in the rounds of her relentless social life, he was an anticipated and often charming addition to her cachet when he could. She liked their image as a couple: strong, independent, and sophisticated. There were times when she felt embarrassed for, and a little superior to, her friends with their fawning relationships.

But that was before she realized that Sam’s flexibility was actually deep indifference. And that sometimes his 70-hour week wasn’t all spent on the job.

Sooner or later, most of Sam Waterman’s women asked why he cheated on his wife. Except for Tess, he never cared enough about any of them to come up with an answer. Even with Tess, his explanation was inadequate. Judith was smart, beautiful, accomplished and independent, everything he thought he wanted. And it was the very structured, methodical, goal-oriented mindset with which she exercised those qualities that made her so easy to cheat on. Sam didn’t bother with introspection often, but sometimes in bed with other women, he allowed himself a fleeting glimpse into the dark corner of his mind where he recognized that he cheated simply because he enjoyed it and didn’t care enough to deny himself.

To Sam’s way of thinking, there hadn’t been that many entanglements. Often he really was too busy. But from time to time, he somehow managed to find women who were looking for a little sport. Or they found him. They were intermittent affairs, scheduled more for convenience than ardor. The women knew he was married. They always were too. None of them were interested in big changes in their lives. They knew all he wanted was a little out-of-bounds excitement, a little illicit fun. Until Tess. After her, it wasn’t a matter of self-denial. It was self-preservation.

Even with Judith's reservation, the wait was 25 minutes. But the manicotti was pretty good, and Sam actually began to relax while he nursed his second Glenfiddich, and Judith had her espresso. She was going on about some Senate aide who had apparently made quite an impression. “She’s just so sharp, Sam,” Judith was saying. “My God, she knows everyone in town, and she’s plugged in to everything. She is really just so sharp.”

“Quite a recommendation,” Sam muttered absently. He wished he could have taken a minute to call Higgins before they’d left to see if he had a number for Tess. Judith had, of course, caught on to the fact that there was someone else while he was seeing Tess, but to his knowledge she had never known specifically who the woman was. Still, there was no way he would have made the call in front of his wife. He’d better touch base with Tess soon though, before …

“Are you listening to a single word?” Judith’s voice broke in, and Sam looked up with a jerk, aware that he didn’t have a clue what had prompted the question.

“Sorry. I guess I’m a little tired.” He sat up and leaned toward her, trying to hide his annoyance at her intrusion in his thoughts. “What were you saying?”

“I asked if you wanted to know why I met with Jayne Hugret.”

“Frederick Morton’s chief of staff?” Judith put her cup down with disgust. “Oh, right, right, the ‘sharp’ lady.” With a shake of his head, he realized she was probably finally getting to the reason she’d asked him to dinner. “OK, why were you two meeting?”