Unfinished Business (18 page)

She could sink him, he knew it. She could freak out, or go to that scary “far left” place. She could call them all on the carpet, accuse them of being bigots just for their curiosity. She could do so many things, so many things that would torpedo this event and spill over onto others.

And the worst part would be that they would deserve it. The fax was ugly, indefensible, and racist.

She cleared her throat.

“I'm sorry,” she began in a low voice, addressing the room without the aid of the sound system, but it was so quiet, Mark was pretty sure even those in the back heard every word. “I'm more than little upset by all of this.” She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was stronger and more audible. “But it makes it a little easier to have been the target of something so vicious in the company of such supportive and committed people.” She managed a smile. “Thank you all for that. You all know I don't agree with Mark—the senator—on very much. But he's right about one thing: you've got to keep this campaign centered on what's really important: the war and the economy
and Social Security and the challenges facing our country.” She nodded toward the paper still in her hands. “Not some crap like this. So answer the man's questions, Senator,” she teased.

There was a twitter of laughter.

“Well,” Mark said, sending her a look of gratitude before tearing his attention from her face. “I have my orders. Let's take this stuff point by point.”

She wasn't going in there.

He'd promised her a drink, but this place looked like Johnny Reb's favorite hangout: a dull, flat, cinderblock building with a few neon beer signs and no windows. Nothing but dusty pickups and even dustier motorcycles in the dirt parking lot.

“High class,” Erica muttered.

“They're good people,” was all he offered by way of encouragement, rubbing at his forehead with the back of his hand. “And I could really use a beer.”

Erica stared up at him. He did look a little bedraggled. But then considering how a simple Q & A had nearly turned into a forum on interracial relationships, you could hardly blame the guy for looking a little queasy. He looked a little sweaty, too, like the Q & A had worked his Right Guard. But the sweatiness could have just been the result of the sultry drive in un-air-conditioned Old Red, which had the back of his white dress shirt sticking to him like a wet rag.

Her own T-shirt clung to her back, equally damp and uncomfortable—and she knew fully well in her own case it wasn't Old Red.

Right about now, she was sweating everything.

Damned if this isn't a weird spot to be in
, she had thought, listening at the Q & A.
I'm almost rooting for a man on the wrong side.
She had the same thought over and over as, one by one, Newman's constituents stood to ask their questions. The war came up time and time again, and Newman was right: The people took a peculiar pride in sending their sons and daughters off to fight. But again and again, they asked the question on every American's lips:

When will this end?

It was the question that Newman most needed to be able to answer, and the only question for which he had no answer at all.

Well, not the only question.

He didn't have a definition for the exact state of their relationship, either, and at some point, soon, Erica knew, they were going to have to have “the talk,” and either quit or damn the torpedoes and go full speed ahead.

They hadn't talked during the drive. Not about the fax, or the Q & A or the war or the relationship or anything. The only words spoken were, “I promised you a drink,” and something told Erica this wasn't the time to question him about the fax and its possible relationship to the odd pictures she'd been receiving, even though she couldn't have been more certain of a connection if the sender had signed his or her name. Instead, she studied the tight lines of his profile, watching a frown deepen on his face as he sank into a reverie that she sensed had nothing to do with her.

Then they had pulled into the parking lot in front of this place.

Mark stumped around the truck to the passenger side and offered her his hand.

“I think I need a clean shirt,” she told him, sliding out to join him. “I can smell myself.”

He leaned toward her, sniffing, and she caught a whiff of him. It had, indeed, been a long day.

“You're fine,” he told her. “Fresh as a daisy.”

“Yeah, a dead one,” she told him, leaning into the back of the truck for her bag. “Is there a ladies' room in there?”

He frowned. “You know…I don't know,” he said, as though it were the first time he'd contemplated the question. “I know there's a men's room…but I don't think I've ever seen a woman in Dickey Joe's, now that you mention it. At least, other than Mary.”

“Who's Mary?”

A troubled expression creased his face for a moment. “Dickey's daughter. She worked in my office for a while, but it didn't work out. She's a terrific kid, but terribly shy. I think it was all a little much for her, the pace, the workload…Bitsi.” And from the way he said it, Erica knew instantly there was a whole story there, waiting to be told. “But you're right,” he continued briskly, as Erica extracted a new top and zipped the bag closed again. “If Mary's there, there's got to be somewhere for a woman to do her thing.”

 

“Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in!”

The place was as dim and dank as she would have expected from its outside, but a good deal cleaner. It had all the ubiquitous features of a honky-tonk bar: wooden tables and chairs tucked into dark corners populated by tattooed men with pink necks and forearms, a long bar complete with stools, a pool table, a jukebox, and Dickey Joe: a fifty-something, big-bellied man with a shock of salt-and-pepper hair growing from his head to the sides of his face, to his chin.

“Hey, there, Dickey. How the hell are you?” Mark
shook the man's hand warmly. “Good to see you.”

“It's about time you got here. Your flight got in almost four hours ago. I had Mary check for me. I was beginning to wonder if you weren't coming this time.” He nodded toward his daughter, a fresh-faced twenty-something Erica felt old just looking at.

“Bite your tongue.” Mark laughed. “Me, come home and not stop at Dickey's?” He shook his head. “Don't think so. I'm a little late today because—”

“Campaigning.” The young woman's voice was very soft, and immediately after she spoke she lowered her eyes as though she feared she shouldn't have.

“That's right,” Mark said in the calm, gentle voice one might use to talk to a small child. “Had to race to town to talk to some people. It's nice to see you, Mary. How're you getting along?”

Even with her eyes averted and her head bent, it was impossible to miss how the girl turned crimson. Instead of answering the question, she turned away and busied herself with beer glasses.

“She's fine, Mark, just fine. Doin' some volunteer work over at Mercy Hospital. And of course, helpin' me. I don't know what I'd do without her.”

Mark followed the girl with his eyes for a long second, before turning his attention back to his old friend. “Well, as you can see, I'm not traveling alone. Dickey, I'd like you to meet—”

“Already know who
you
are! You're the schoolteacher!” Dickey said, shaking a finger in Erica's direction. “The one what was on TV with my boy, here, a few days back.”

“I am.” Erica smiled into Dickey's broad, red face.
In a few more years, he'll be a perfect Santa Claus
, she thought. He'd be good at it, too. He had that bartend
er's way of making people feel welcome, feel at ease. “Nice to meet you…uh…Mr.—”

“None of that. Everybody calls me ‘Dickey Joe' and you ain't gonna be the exception. Hey Mary!” Dickey called over his shoulder. “We got us a couple of cel-e-brit-ies in 'ere today!”

“Yes sir,” Mary agreed in that same soft voice. She turned and Erica saw she'd drawn two beers with huge, foaming heads. She set one down in front of Erica and the other in front of Mark without looking at either one of them.

“Y'all want some food today? Mary does the best barbeque this side of the Mississippi.”

Mark glanced at Erica. “You hungry?”

Erica imagined a pile of slaughtered meat slathered with hickory sauce, and her stomach turned. Even though she was starving, something told her Dickey Joe's idea of a salad would be a single leaf of iceberg with a tomato on the side. She conjured as phony a smile as any politician would have been proud to own and shook her head. “Just very, very thirsty.”

“You're at the right place. Dickey Joe's is just about the best beer ever brewed.” Mark curled his fist appreciatively around the cold glass and lifted it, as though preparing to toast, before stopping short. “Please tell me you drink beer.”

“Actually,” Erica began, intending to finish with
I hate beer
, until she noticed the pained expression on his face. She glanced at the faces of their hosts. Dickey Joe's eyes were riveted to her face with an expression of eager anticipation, and even Mary had raised her eyes to stare at Erica with interest. “Actually, I don't usually drink at all,” she continued, and watched all their face fall until she finished with, “but today, I'll make an exception.”

She could see Mark's shoulders relax, and the
smile that lit up his face made the lie worthwhile. “To friends, old and new,” he said, nodding first toward Dickey Joe and Mary, and then toward Erica before taking a long pull on the glass.

Erica raised the glass to her face. It smelled awful—like something rotten—but she held her breath and poured a full swallow into her mouth.

My God, it was nasty. Nastier than it smelled. Erica managed to gulp it down without choking, but it was hard to keep herself from grimacing at the awfulness of it all.

Mark Newman and Dickey Joe chuckled like they'd had a joke at her expense.

“You like it?” Mark asked.

“It's…uh…very good,” Erica lied, but they must not have been convinced, because the men laughed again.

“Well, there's plenty of it,” Dickey Joe declared. “Drink up!”

Erica stared at the still full glass. There was no way she could stomach even the smallest sip of the stuff.

“I—is there a place where I can…um…freshen up a little?” she stammered instead.

“Sure thing, little lady. Mary!”

The girl was already wiping her hands on her apron and opening the flap that separated the bar from the tiny restaurant. She scurried away, her head down, and Erica could only assume she was intended to follow.

The girl led her out of the public areas of the bar and through a small kitchen area to a little closet of a room at the very rear of the restaurant.

“There's a restroom out front,” she said, daring to cast a quick, interested glance at Erica's face, “But this is the one I use.”

“Thanks, Mary,” Erica said. “I'll just be a second.
Wait for me? I don't think I can find my way back.”

The girl flashed Erica a quick smile and nodded until her lank blonde ponytail swished on her slender shoulders.

It wasn't the Ritz Carlton, but the restroom was serviceable and clean. After using the facilities, Erica stripped off her hot, long-sleeved shirt and splashed some cool water on her face and under her arms. Thanking the god of preparedness, she pulled a tiny trial-size tube of deodorant from her satchel and spritzed on a little body spray to cover the worst of the funk. She put on the sleeveless white tank she'd pulled from her bag and immediately felt appropriately dressed for the weather at last. As for the hair, it was too hot here to keep it loose, so she pulled a scarf from her bag and followed the tradition of her ancestors.

“You look different,” Mary said, considering her fully for the first time since they'd met. Her pale blue eyes seemed to dart over every detail of Erica's appearance before she lowered them again and turned to lead the way back into the bar.

“Thanks…I think,” Erica said, following her once again. “Is that good?”

The girl's ponytail bobbed affirmative. “You don't look like a Washington woman.”

Erica laughed. “Depends on what you know about Washington women. What does ‘not Washington' look like to you?”

Mary's eyes found Erica's for another brief second. “Not Bitsi Barr,” she said in a voice that resonated with deep dislike. But by then they were back with the menfolk, and Mary kept her eyes low and her mouth shut. Erica didn't get the chance to ask her just what had happened between her and Mark's media director that had left her so angry and so bitter.

 

“Oh my God,” Mark breathed, rising unsteadily as she entered. “It's a miracle. An absolute miracle!” he cried, saluting her with his beer glass. “Your shirt!”

“What?” Erica asked turning around to see what on Earth he could be talking about. “You don't like it?”

“I love it,” he said smirking sarcasm and looking like he was desperately in need of being slapped. “It's the most beautiful shirt you own. Why? Because it doesn't have one of those idiotic slogans on it.”

Erica rolled her eyes. “Very funny, wise guy. For your information, I have lots of shirts that don't—”

“'Scuse me. Senator?”

Mark turned away from Erica to face the voice.

A wiry man with a bedraggled gray ponytail stood at his elbow. Erica took him in, from his black biker vest to the “Semper Fi” tattoo on his forearm. When the man raised his right arm, she drew back with a little gasp, half expecting him to strike.

But the arm ended in a hand raised in a salute.

“From one veteran to another, thank you, sir,” the man said, the heels of his scuffed black cycle boots scraping the floor as he came to full attention.

The smirk slid off Mark's face and his expression grew suddenly grim. “Thank
you
, sir,” he said, returning the salute and then clasping the man's hand in a handshake. “Marine Corps?”

The man nodded. “Vietnam.”

“Thank you for your service.”

“And you for yours, sir.” The man shuffled from foot to foot. “I heard about what you did in Gulf One. Hope you can hold the line with the folks in D.C. like that.”

“I'll do my best,” Mark replied.

The man's eyes left Mark's for a moment and focused on Erica with a peculiar intensity. Was it her
imagination, or did the man's expression change, just a little? Erica had the feeling of being x-rayed or Xeroxed by his cool gray eyes. She didn't like the feeling one bit. When she glanced at Mark, he was frowning like he'd seen the change in the man, too. But all the guy said was, “You know what this man did, miss?” in a perfectly calm and rational voice.

“I've read about some of it, but I don't know the whole story,” she told the aging veteran, thanking God and Angelique that she'd actually read some of those old war-hero articles on the Internet. “He's never told me the details.”

Something like a blush rose in Mark's cheeks, and he mumbled something incomprehensible.

“I can tell you,” Dickey Joe volunteered. “I love the story. Tell it every chance I get. It's got everything: drama, mystery, intrigue…”