Prospect Street (22 page)

The old row house was used to the heat. The walls were thick enough to shield the inhabitants from some of it. Architects knew how to design houses in the nineteenth century. High ceilings, so the heat had somewhere to go. Windows that mirrored each other to encourage drafts.

She wanted to install air-conditioning, but there hadn't been time to find contractors and get bids. As soon as she and Joe had returned from Bermuda, Joe had flown off on a fact-finding mission to Cuba. He hadn't been in Congress long enough to be chosen for an important mission like this one, but Joe was a bona fide war hero, a man who had risked his own life at Inchon and proved his stake in a strong, Communist-free America. So of course he had to go, because the Cuban trip was such a feather in his cap.

Lydia was so proud of him, but she had been lonely as she set up housekeeping. From Cuba Joe had flown to Norfolk, then on to Roanoke and Richmond on a short speaking tour of his home state. Travel and campaigning were part of his job, and Lydia understood that. She was just thrilled he was finally coming home tonight.

In the weeks while her new husband was away, she'd struggled to ready the house. She knew Joe didn't really like the row house, despite the fact that some people considered Georgetown to be the fashionable place for politicians. She supposed he appreciated the windfall. The house had been presented to Lydia on a silver platter after her grandmother's death. How many young congressmen started careers without the normal worries of where to live and how to afford it? Still, Joe was simple and straightforward, and the narrow tree-shaded streets of Georgetown, with their quirky charm, seemed foolish to him.

She smiled fondly. Joe was the kind of man who would prefer to see efficient modern high-rises on this spot, like the ones going up across the river. If he had his way, he would bulldoze Georgetown to the ground, although he was much too good a politician ever to say so.

She moved her plate one-tenth of an inch to the right and went into the kitchen to finish the dinner preparations. On their honeymoon she'd discovered that Joe's tastes in food were simple, too. He'd been raised on country ham, corn bread and beans, like most of his Southern Virginia constituents. What was good enough for the people who elected him was good enough for Joe. She found his food choices amusing, but she'd set about to reform him.

Tonight, for their reunion dinner, she'd fixed beef stroganoff, using the finest cut the local butcher offered. What was stroganoff, after all, except steak and gravy? She had cooked green beans—longer than she liked—but now she made a sauce of butter and blanched almonds to serve over them. She had Parker House rolls, and for dessert, slices of pound cake to serve with fresh strawberries.

Joe would be impressed.

She was also certain he would be impressed by everything she'd done to the house. She had culled her grandmother's antiques, saving the things that were valuable or that she just couldn't part with. Then she had mixed in the best pieces from the apartment she lived in before marrying Joe, and a few good pieces that Joe possessed from his family home.

She had stripped away Violet's heavy, faded drapes and bought inexpensive substitutes right off the shelf at Woody's. Maybe the bachelor Jack Kennedy had arrived at his first Georgetown house with the Kennedy family cook, but not everyone serving in Congress had a family retainer and a bottomless checking account.

Lydia had hoped to finish repapering the kitchen before Joe arrived home, but the job was harder than she'd expected. She was almost ready to strip off what she'd managed to put up and paint the kitchen a bright lemon-yellow. She would enjoy that riotous splash of color every time she walked through the door.

When everything was ready in the kitchen, she ran upstairs to change into her favorite blue sheath and stick a few more hairpins in the French twist her hairdresser had crafted that afternoon. Like everything else in the capital, her hair was wilting, despite heavy clouds of hair spray, but she still looked cool and unruffled. On the event of her engagement to Joe, the
Post
society columnist had compared Lydia's blond, patrician looks to Princess Grace. Life was wonderful.

The front door opened while she was still upstairs. She smiled, glad that she could make an entrance on the stairwell. Before she went to meet her husband, she straightened her skirt and adjusted the gold chain with the teardrop pearl that Joe had given her on their wedding day.

Joe was standing at the bottom of the steps when she made her appearance. His shaggy brows shot nearly to his hairline when he saw her coming toward him. He wasn't a man who smiled much—that was one of the first things she'd noticed about him. But his scowl had grown on her over the months of their courtship. When he did smile, the effect was startling.

“Congressman Joseph Huston, I presume?” She stopped to pose a few steps above him. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“You look lovely, Lydia. Good enough to eat.”

Since that was the way she planned to end the evening, the comment was promising. “And you look like a man who needs some iced tea and a kiss.”

He held out his arms, and she gave up her pose and leapt into them.

Minutes later, he stepped away from her. “I've ruined your makeup.”

“I don't care. You go up and change, and I'll fix it. I'll have your tea ready when you come down.”

The glasses were sweating by the time he returned. He looked okay in a suit, but better in casual clothing, since he was built like his farmer ancestors. He had changed into a striped Oxford shirt and neatly pleated gray pants and loafers. He had combed his hair, but his cowlick had already regathered the troops for another assault.

Joe wasn't handsome. No one would ever dare accuse him of such a thing. But he had strong features that announced he was a man to rely on, and the broad shoulders and stocky physique to second the nomination. In just a few short years she had lost her mother and father and her grandparents, but in her hour of need, Lydia had found Joe.

With a pert smile, Lydia handed him his tea. “I put lots of sugar and lemon in it, and some mint from my grandmother's garden. Maybe I can put it back to rights before it's hopeless.”

He took three large swallows before he responded. “I hope that's not your first priority.”

“No, there's more to do inside. This wallpaper, for instance.” She grimaced. “I'm sorry about it. It's harder than I expected. I may take it down and paint.”

He looked as if he was biting back a comment, unusual enough to make her curious. “Joe? You haven't said a thing about the changes I've made so far.”

“I haven't really had time, have I?”

She lifted the lid off the stroganoff. “You look around while I get dinner on the table. Tell me what you think.”

When he left the kitchen, she added the sour cream, then ladled the stroganoff into a serving dish. The noodles were just tender enough, and she drained them and put them in another. The string beans went into a third; then she carried the dishes into the dining room.

“I expected you to get rid of this old table.” Joe was squinting at her table setting.

“It's mahogany. Once I've done a little refinishing it'll be gorgeous.”

“I don't like these old things. This is the twentieth century.”

She was surprised at the edge to his voice, but she put it off as exhaustion. “Darling, this is Georgetown. It's chock-full of history. The antiques blend with the house and neighborhood. Chrome and Naugahyde would hardly do here, would they?”

She was disappointed he hadn't noticed how lovely the table looked, but she was philosophical. Men went out in the world to slay dragons, and when they returned, they were still wielding their little swords. A woman's job was to calm and domesticate them again. Some days it took longer than others.

She tried to tease away some of his bad mood. “Besides, Joe, you're always talking about the way things are moving too fast, the way we need to take stock and remember the values of previous generations. Just think of the antiques that way.”

“I suppose if
you
like them….”

“Me? I like my husband, and I just want him to be happy.”

That seemed to soften him a little. When everything was on the table, he pulled out her chair and seated her. She passed him each serving dish first, only taking her share when he'd finished. From under her eyelashes she watched him take his first bite of the stroganoff. And she saw the distaste flicker across his features. He chewed and swallowed, but he didn't take another bite. He moved on to the green beans.

“You don't like the stroganoff?” She couldn't imagine such a thing. Her father had wheedled the recipe out of a chef at the
Mayflower Hotel. Harold Charles had complained it was harder to get the recipe than to get concessions from Joseph Stalin after World War II.

Joe looked pained. “I don't like mushrooms. I despise them.”

“My goodness. I had no idea. You never told me.”

“It's not exactly a conversational opener, Lydia.”

“Well, we're married now, Joe. I have to know these things. Maybe you'd better make a list.”

He held up a fork of green beans and glowered. “I don't like nuts in my vegetables.”

“That's just a few almonds, darling. For flavor.”

“The string beans have plenty of flavor, thanks.”

Her joy in the meal, in the table setting, in his return, was fast disappearing. “Well, can you pick out the things you don't like?”

He set down his fork. “That would be about everything.”

Tears sprang to her eyes. “I worked hard on this meal. I wanted to make it special.”

He seemed to think better of his behavior. He took a deep breath and picked up his fork. “I know you worked hard. Maybe I just need to work a little harder learning to eat something different.”

She blinked away the tears and concentrated on finishing the food on her plate, which now seemed to have as much flavor as cardboard.

“So, what happened to the drapes?” Joe took a big gulp of iced water. He was taking a gulp after every bite.

“They were old and faded. That heavy fabric didn't let in any light, and I like to watch the world go by. Besides, these row houses can be so gloomy.”

“The whole world can see us now.”

“At most they'll see shadows moving behind the curtains.”

“I'm in Congress. I don't want anyone knowing what I do and whom I do it with.”

She looked up. “Joe, if anyone important comes here to see you, they'll have to get out of a car and walk to the front door.
They'll be in plain view. Once they're inside, a shadow behind a curtain is nothing.”

“What if somebody wants to harm me or a visitor? They'll know exactly where we are every minute.”

She pushed her chair back and threw her napkin on the table. “Then
you
choose curtains. Okay? You go to the store and choose them or, better yet, get some World War II blackout curtains at the Army-Navy surplus store. And buy some new furniture you like while you're at it. Nothing I've done so far has pleased you. What's the point of continuing?”

“Don't get hysterical. For heaven's sake, I was merely making a comment about security.”

“And about mushrooms and mahogany and nuts in your vegetables. Well, nuts to you!” She got up, grabbed her plate and stormed into the kitchen.

At the sink, she stood with her head bowed. A rotating fan on the counter ruffled tendrils of hair languishing at her neckline. One flap of loose wallpaper scraped the wall every time the fan spun in its direction, keeping time as her tears splashed against the porcelain.

She straightened when the worst was over and began to scour the pots and pans. She worked so ferociously that she didn't hear Joe until he was right behind her.

“You're overreacting.”

She supposed that was his idea of an apology. “You haven't said one nice thing about the work I did.”

“I'm a congressman. I live in the public eye. We're not just any young couple setting up housekeeping. There are standards we have to adhere to.”

She faced him. She didn't even care that her mascara was probably running down her cheeks. “I am the daughter of an ambassador, Joe. Don't you think I learned about standards? Two of the first things Daddy taught me were never to be cruel to other people, and never, never, to believe that my way was the only way to do anything.”

“Then you'll agree that this time, your way isn't working.”

She couldn't believe he had turned her words back on her, that he had entirely missed her point. “What would you like me to do?”

“You need to consult a professional. Find someone to do the work and make the decisions about what's proper here. I'll talk to some of my colleagues and see if they have suggestions.”

“A decorator? You want to spend money on a decorator?”

“Just for ideas. To put things to rights.”

“I don't need anyone to tell me what's right. I have taste. I have style.”

“I want you to.”

She considered saying no. What would he do then? How would he punish her?

“Please?” He managed a smile. “It's a big job for a little woman. You're going to have other things on your mind. We need to start our family. I don't want you refinishing furniture and inhaling paint fumes and climbing on ladders when you're pregnant.”

At the moment she didn't want his children. She was too angry and, worse, too hurt. She turned around and stared at the wall over the sink.

Joe put his hands on her shoulders. “You've already done so much to make the place nicer. Why not get a little help? You'll have more time to do other things, socialize with some of the other wives.”

The house was hers. Hers! And she loved it in a way that no decorator ever would. She bit back the words. “I'll get some names, and I'll consult. But only a consultation, Joe. The final decisions about this house are mine. Are we agreed?”