Miss Julia's Marvelous Makeover (2 page)

“Julia,” Sam said with a little smile pulling at the corners of his mouth as he snapped open the newspaper, “I've decided not to take a trip this summer. It looks to be so busy that I won't have time to get away.” This was on an evening a few weeks later while we relaxed by the fire in our new library at the end of a blustery day in February.

I looked at him in the other wing chair, taking note of his carefully averted eyes, and knew that something was afoot. “Is that right,” I responded. “Well, I'll be glad to have you home. What changed your mind?”

“Oh, I've just realized that there're a lot of interesting things to do closer to home. I don't have to go halfway around the world to keep myself entertained.”

He was being entirely too noncommittal, deliberately holding back on something.

“You're not planning a camping trip in Pisgah Forest, are you? Because if you are, I don't sleep on cots or in tents.”

He laughed. “Not my cup of tea either.” Then he made a great show of concentrating on an article in the paper—a patent attempt to engage my curiosity.

“May I ask what it is you've found that'll keep you too busy to float down the Rhine? And, yes, I've noticed all the brochures you've left lying around.”

“Thought you would,” he said without looking my way. “They didn't tempt you, did they?”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “They didn't.” Then waited to hear what he'd come up with to replace his travel plans. And kept waiting, while he read the want ads, the sports page, the editorials, a columnist with whom I knew he didn't agree, and the letters to
the editor. At this point, I realized that I had another character defect that would go on my list of minuses the next time I decided to take stock: lack of patience.

“Well,” I demanded. “What is it? What do you have up your sleeve that you're dying to tell me about, but not before I have to drag it out of you?”

He frowned and pursed his mouth, as if he were giving it some deep thought. “Well, it's like this. It might involve a little travel—not far—just around a couple of counties, as you suggested, but still you might not be interested. I can probably handle it by myself, but if not, there'll be plenty of volunteers to help out.”

“For what? I never heard of having volunteers to travel around a few counties. And who would volunteer, anyway?”

“Oh, a lot of folks, all eager to do whatever I want. I'll have my pick, but don't worry. No overnight trips as far as I know.”

“Well, that's good,” I said, thinking that I'd figured out his plans. “Sounds as if you've found some fishing buddies. You'll be floating around on water even if it's not the Rhine, and you'll probably catch more, too.”

“Nope, won't be any time for fishing. The French Broad and Mud Creek will have to do without me this year.”

“Sam Murdoch,” I said, fully aroused by this time, “put down that paper and tell me what you're doing.”

He lowered the paper, smiled at me, and said, “I've decided that you're right—home is where I want to be, too. So tell me, how would you like to be the state senator's wife?”

“
Jimmy Ray Mooney's?
Sam, he's married.”

“So are you,” he pointed out, laughing at the shock on my face. “But no, you won't have to change husbands. The one you already have has been asked to run for the senate of the North Carolina General Assembly.”

“The state senate,” I murmured, as if it was a new concept, which it was. “In Raleigh?”

“Where else?” Sam asked.

“Well, I guess I'm just surprised,” I said, running over all the
ramifications in my mind. “I didn't know you had political ambitions. How long have you been thinking about this?”

He looked at his watch. “About two hours,” he said with a straight face. Then he put aside the paper to give me his full attention. “Here's what happened: I was approached about running several weeks ago, but I had my heart set on taking a trip with you this summer. So I turned it down, but then Frank Sawyer had to drop out—you heard about that?”

“He had a double knee replacement, didn't he?”

“Yeah, and not doing very well, I understand. The party was counting on him to run against Jimmy Ray again, but he's not up for campaigning all spring and summer. Look, Julia,” Sam said, leaning forward, “the deadline for filing is at the end of this week, so if you have any hesitation about this, tell me now. I'll turn it down with no regrets. In fact, it'd give me a good excuse to go fishing instead.”

“Well, I guess that's better than going down the Rhine, but I don't know, Sam. You're not giving me a whole lot of time to think. Would we have to move to Raleigh?”

“No. The Assembly is in session only a few months a year. We could get a small apartment there, and you could go with me or I'd come home every weekend. They close up shop on Thursdays, so we'd have three-day weekends at home.”

“It's a long drive, though.”

“About four and a half to five hours.” He raised his eyebrows and smiled. “Depending on how often we stopped.”

I smiled back. I didn't let many rest areas go by without dropping in. Then I gazed into the fire for a while, thinking over what a political campaign might mean to our comfortable way of life. Then I looked up at him and said, “This may sound as if I'm trying to talk you out of it, but I'm not. I just want to know what we'd be getting ourselves into. You've retired from practicing law, do you really want to take on another job? And what about your book—the one you've worked on so long? Would you just put that aside?”

“As for taking on another job, the beauty part of this is that I
would be a one-term senator—I've made that clear. The party is grooming an up-and-comer, but he's too green this year. In two years in the next election he'll be ready or Sawyer will be healthy enough to run again. Frank knew he was having surgery, but he assured the party he'd be able to run, but, well.” Sam stopped and chuckled. “He didn't take into account some complications he's having. I understand he's cussing his surgeon up one side and down the other. Fact of the matter is, Julia, I'd be a stopgap, which is fine with me. Two years of politicking is enough, and besides, it'll give me more material for my book.”

The book of which we spoke was a history of Abbot County's legal community—the lawyers, judges, defendants, and so on—which Sam had been working on during his retirement.

“But,” he went on, “if you're against it, I won't do it. The only reason I'm even considering it is because I'm a firm believer in the two-party system. To let Jimmy Ray run unopposed goes against the grain. He's been in the senate long enough.” Sam stopped and thought for a minute. “And there is this: I may have no choice. I might not win.”

“Oh,” I said, waving my hand to brush that possibility aside, “you'll win, all right. Everybody knows you and respects you. I have no doubt you'd win.”

He laughed again. “Thanks, but I'm not so sure. There's an ingrained group that's controlled this district, county, and town for years—it's a tight network of old hands, except they've been careful to bring in newcomers so that the same faces don't appear over and over. But they know what they're doing. They pretty much stack the town council, then they take turns standing for mayor. And they do pretty much the same with state and federal offices—that's why it's such a blow to lose Frank Sawyer. He was the best one to take on Mooney. He almost beat him two years ago.”

“So you'd be running against Jimmy Ray?”

“Right, and he'll be hard to beat with that crowd behind him.”

As I thought this over, I realized that a lot of underhanded
things must've been going on that I—and a lot of others—hadn't known about.

“That just burns me up,” I said, somewhat hotly. “Do you mean to tell me that our elections have all been rigged for years?”

“Not rigged exactly, no,” Sam said, shaking his head. “Just that they've been able to preselect the candidates who run, and with this district being mostly a one-party district, voters have little choice. And they put up enough new names now and then to give the appearance of real change. They're all alike, though, and they all have the same agenda.”

“And what agenda is that?”

“Knowing ahead of everybody else which industry plans to expand, where a new business or a government building will be located, what roads the DOT will widen and where new ones will be constructed—just a few minor things like that. Then they form a corporation to buy up land before any of it is made public.”

“I don't think that's legal, and who are they anyway?” I demanded, riled up now at the thought that I'd been freely exercising my right to vote all these years without knowing that I'd not been so free after all.

“Well, look who's on the town council and on the county commission, and look at our representatives and senators—state and federal. They're all part of it. But voters might be ready for a real change this go-round. Take Jimmy Ray, our current state senator . . .”

“I don't have to take him. Every time I hear his name, I feel so sorry for that daughter of his. Jimmie Mae Mooney—who in their right mind would saddle a child with a name like that? He should've just named her Junior and been done with it.”

“Oh, he's all right,” Sam said, thinking the best of people as he usually did. “In fact, they're all decent enough. But Frank Sawyer was our best bet to take on Mooney and break that stranglehold. I'm trying to consider it an honor that the party asked me to take his place.” Sam grinned in that self-deprecatory way of his.

“Well,
I
consider it an honor, as well as an indication of the
party's good sense in selecting you. But, tell me something, Sam—were you never interested in being a judge? You would be such a good one—you're so fair-minded and you certainly know the law.”

“I thought about it a couple of times,” Sam said, shrugging. “But I was caught up in writing my book, then I got a bee in my bonnet about a certain widow lady, and the interest faded away. Now, though, learning and doing something new is very appealing, especially if it appeals to you, too. I think we'd have a good time, Julia, doing this together and doing something good for the district, as well. But,” he said, raising a finger to emphasize his point, “I'm not going to do it without you. We'd be making a two-year commitment if I win, and that would be it. And if I do win, it'll mean going back and forth to Raleigh when the Assembly is in session, and keeping an office open here for constituents during the off-season. But keep in mind that it's very likely that I'll lose, and I don't want you to be disappointed. As for me, I can take it or leave it.”

As I studied the matter, I realized that I, too, could take it or leave it. However it turned out, I was not so invested in a senate race that I'd be thrilled on the one hand or devastated on the other. Of course, though, it never entered my head to discourage Sam from doing anything he wanted to do, but it was clear that he wanted me to want what he wanted. In fact, it sounded as if he wouldn't do it at all if I was the least bit hesitant about it. I'd already disappointed him by turning down a globe-trotting trip, but this I could do without having to pack a suitcase.

So I thought about it, and the more I thought, the more appealing it seemed. I thought about those long drives to and from Raleigh—just the two of us in the car alone, the talks we could have—why, we'd have more time together than we'd ever had at home. And the thought of being the representatives of all the people in the district—working for them, improving conditions, speaking for them—I just got all patriotic and shivery at the thought. Well, of course I knew that it would be Sam who'd be their senator, but I, too, would have a small part in sacrificing for my country.

“One question, Sam,” I finally said. “Would I have to make any speeches?”

“Oh,” he said offhandedly, “maybe one or two. Maybe to your book club or to other small groups, that sort of thing. We'd work up a little ten-minute talk, and you'd give that over and over.” He arched one eyebrow at me. “All about how wonderful I am.”

I laughed. “That would be no problem, except I'd probably make every woman in the district jealous.”

“And,” Sam went on, “during the campaign we'd have to show up at every pig-pickin', barbecue, watermelon cutting, parade, VFW meeting, and civic event around. Your job would be to stand there and gaze adoringly at me.”

“Oh, Sam,” I said, laughing, “you make it sound like fun. And we could take Lloyd to some of the events. He could meet people and learn all about politics. But,” I went on, getting serious, “there's one thing I want you to promise me. Please, please don't use the word
fight
in your speeches or advertising or anything. It just turns me off to hear a candidate—even a sweet, grandmotherly type—say, ‘Send me to Raleigh or Washington, and I'll
fight
for you,' as if they can't wait to get into a brawl with fisticuffs and hair pulling.”