Unfinished Business (19 page)

As testament to the story's power, Mary took the barstool next to Erica and leaned her forearms on the counter expectantly.

“Most people don't know much about Gulf One,” the veteran added, easing his slender, leather-clad self onto the barstool beside Mark. “Some of these kids don't even know Saddam invaded Kuwait and had to get his butt kicked out.”

“Well, it was over in a little over a month,” Mark muttered self-deprecatingly.

“The length of the conflict doesn't matter,” the other man said, with an air of quiet certainty. “The greatest acts of heroism—of self sacrifice—are made in a matter of minutes.”

“True.” Dickey Joe set a beer in front of the man and nodded. “On the house. In honor of my boy here.” And he gave Mark another of those massive shoulder claps that passed for affection between men.

A grin of genuine affection, tinged with more than
a little embarrassment, covered Mark's face. “Cut it out, Dickey Joe,” he muttered.

But Dickey Joe had already leaned toward Erica and stuck a beefy red finger in her face. “See, this is how it happened. We went over there to teach that Saddam a lesson, right? And most of the war was them air strikes. Missiles laying waste to everything.”

“Shock and awe,” added the veteran with a relish that made Erica more than a little uncomfortable. “We shocked and awed 'em all right.”

“But,” Dickey Joe continued as though there had been no interruption. “What most people don't realize, is there was also a ground war going on, too.”

“Kosijo,” interrupted the other man, nodding knowingly.

“Kosijo,” Mark repeated. His voice sounded oddly hollow, like he was trying to shake a memory that wasn't entirely pleasant and failing. “Kosijo.”

Between Dickey Joe and the old veteran, the story came out: how Mark's reconnaissance unit had found themselves surrounded by Iraqi tanks in the middle of the desert with no communications and no backup. How they'd had no choice but to defend their position from hostile fire. How, at cost of life and limb, they'd managed to beat back the enemy, and in the process, convince Saddam's army that they didn't have a prayer in a ground war with the Coalition forces.

“How did you get hurt?” Erica asked, since the men telling the story seemed to care more for the Iraqi body count than anything else.

“An incoming grenade,” Mark muttered. “Didn't dive for cover fast enough.”

And Dickey Joe and the veteran picked up that thread and sewed another American flag with it, wrapping Mark from head to toe in glory.

Erica watched Mark's face closely. He hadn't said much while the men narrated his war experiences. Except for the occasional correction or clarification, he let their glowing words stand. But it was funny—he didn't look particularly proud of himself, either.

Which, for the man Erica had come to know, was oddly uncharacteristic.

When the story was done and the memories stopped playing, the bar was strangely silent. Erica looked around to find them all staring at Mark: Dickey Joe and the old veteran with a kind of quiet pride, Mary with eyes full of youthful admiration. Mark himself seemed unaware of them. He was frowning into his beer like it held important information. He looked like he'd gone somewhere else, somewhere he didn't want or need to be.

Erica didn't like that dark look on his face. Didn't like it one bit.

“Thank you.” She let her fingers find his again, and when his face turned toward hers with a smirk of surprise, she knew she'd pulled him out of whatever mental hole he'd sunk into. “I appreciate hearing that story. Many men wouldn't have done what you did”—and here the old-timers launched into a chorus of “amens” accompanied by nods of agreement—“but after that Q & A today, I can honestly say I've seen firsthand how you handle pressure, so I'm not surprised.”

He grinned at her and Erica felt that odd warmth spread from her heart to her cheeks to certain other regions of her body that shouldn't have had a thing to do with this man or his smile and yet always seemed to. It took her a second to recognize what was shining out of his eyes at her, it was so familiar and so foreign at the same time. But an instant later, she knew. It was the same happy pride she'd seen in her students' faces
when, after long effort, they'd won her hard-earned praise.

He stood stiffly. In spite of the libation and the cool of the room, he still looked a little worse for wear.
Maybe he's coming down with something
, Erica thought, staring up at him with concern.
This schedule is enough to make anyone sick.

“I've got to get Erica to the inn,” he was telling them.

“You mean Mrs. Dickson's Bed and Breakfast up on North Street?”

Mark nodded. “The same.”

“You'll like it there,” Dickey Joe proclaimed. “Beautiful old building, restored and modernized. Much nicer than some stuffy old hotel.”

“Sounds lovely,” Erica said and rubbed her forehead a little. “I confess I could use a little rest.”

“It's been a long day for her,” Mark told them and there was no mistaking the possessive tone in his voice. Erica watched as the father and daughter exchanged a quick glance.

“Long morning for you, too. That plane ride didn't do either of us much good,” Erica said, touching his shoulder.

“You're right,” he agreed. “And we have to be at a town meeting at St. Matthew's tonight at…uh…”

“Seven,” she finished for him.

“You're gonna have to start taking her with you everywhere, son,” Dickey Joe laughed. “She's got a mind like a steel trap, that one. Even if she do come from up North.”

“Well, we disagree on most things, but”—Mark cut a sly glance at Erica's face and watched her roll her eyes in mock annoyance—“she is a woman of many remarkable qualities.”

“I know all about you Southern men and your flat
tery,” she quipped. “And read my lips: It will not work.”

I want to taste your lips, not read 'em.

The words were dancing in his eyes. Erica took one look at him and felt her cheeks getting hot, even though not a word had been spoken aloud. When she raised her eyes again, Mary was staring at her and she could have sworn the girl's expression said, “I know your secret.”

Mark reached into his wallet and pulled out a bill.

“How many times do I have to tell you, your money is no good here?” Dickey Joe began, but Mark cut him off with, “As many times as I have to tell
you
: I pay my way. And add this gentleman's refreshments to my tab.” He turned toward the old vet and offered him his hand. “In thanks for his kind words. And now, good people”—he reached for Erica's hand and caught it easily—“this good lady needs a little rest before our next engagement. She's got a whirlwind tour ahead.”

“Very, very interesting…” Angelique considered the disruptive fax from the Q & A like she'd recently been appointed to Scotland Yard. “But not unexpected,” she pronounced, handing it back to Erica and resuming the activity of applying a coat of body lotion to each of her long, slim legs. She had recently showered and her braids were wrapped in a towel. “I mean this is high-stakes politics, not the playground,” she told her legs. “And you guys have been sparking some serious chemistry ever since that hearing. My only question is, do you think that thing was sent by the same person? The one who was sending those pictures to you?”

Erica nodded. “I'm sure of it. And I know it's that Bitsi chick.”

Angelique squirted out another thick handful of lotion and started in on her arms and shoulders. “How do you know?”

“Well, first because she's that sort. Bitchy. Nasty. Can't stand for anything to be out of her control.” She hesitated, not sure if she wanted to fully voice her suppositions. “I think…she's in love with him.”

Angelique shrugged. “I don't doubt it,” she said matter-of-factly. “And I'd buy that she'd send you nasty-grams. But I don't believe she'd jeopardize his reelection by sending that fax. It just doesn't make sense.”

“Yeah, well, she's crazy,” Erica muttered. “She's crazy, so of course it doesn't make sense. And I'm not the only one who thinks she's off her rocker,” Erica continued, quickly filling Angelique in on the visit to Dickey Joe's Tavern and her brief but enlightening conversation with the timid Mary.

“Mary's probably in love with him, too.” Angelique laughed. Erica watched her pace the hardwood floor of her spacious, airy bedroom in the lovely bed and breakfast Mark had chosen for them. In the time Erica had experienced her first adventures in Billingham, Angelique had carefully unpacked her suitcase and now pulled a pretty pink sundress from the closet. Apparently, she'd also eaten a nice lunch, as evidenced by the empty dishes on a little cart near the door. Erica's stomach growled in envy. All she'd gotten for her afternoon was a bunch of hard-to-answer questions and a sip of bitter-tasting beer.

And the pleasure of Mark Newman's company—which certainly had value, even if she wasn't exactly sure how much that value was.

“It's probably eating those two white women up that he's totally head-over-heels smitten with you,” Angelique said, slipping the dress over her head. “They hate that you're gonna be the one to snuggle up at night with that tall, smart, handsome hunk of something-something!”

“I'm not doing any such thing,” Erica said primly.

“Oh really?” Angelique's voice had that doubting-Thomas quality that Erica knew very well. “Do you mean to tell me you're not thinking about jumping
his bones just about every time you're together? Because, as they say here in the South, ‘that dog don't hunt.'”

Erica opened her mouth to make the token denial, then thought better of it. “Okay, okay. He's got…a certain physical appeal.”

“Damn straight.” Angelique dabbed some perfume behind her knees and on her wrists. “He's F-I-N-E. And smart. And powerful. All together, that's a helluva sexy combination. No woman in her right mind would walk away from that.” She frowned. “Except maybe you.”

“All right, all right. I admit I'm attracted to him. And sometimes I think…” but it was too hard to explain the way she sometimes felt in the man's presence. Like everything was going to be all right. Like there wasn't anything she couldn't do as long as he was near.

“Sometimes you think…?” Angelique prompted, and when Erica looked up, the other woman had paused from the process of applying makeup and was watching her face.

Erica shook those feelings from her mind. “Sometimes I think,” she finished quickly, “that we should just sleep together and get it over with. But that's stupid, too, because I'm not interested in just a physical thing! I want to get married again someday, Angelique. I want kids. I want more than just a good time. And when it comes right down to it, Mark Newman just isn't the one for all that.” She shook her head. “He's not what I'm looking for in a man. Far from it.”

“I see,” Angelique said, but it was evident from the sound in her voice that she saw something far different. “And just what are you looking for again?”

“You know!” Erica exclaimed. And surely, as much
as they talked about men, Angelique must have known. Erica had only recited the list a few thousand times. “A politically, socially and globally aware man who honors a Higher Power and respects all human life. He should know what it means to be culturally oppressed and be a crusader against poverty, ignorance and violence,” Erica reminded her, going through the litany as smoothly as she had ever done. “And it would be nice if he was a vegan, but I suppose I could deal with him being a vegetarian. Mark Newman is none of those things, trust me,” she asserted, pushing aside the memory of how it had felt to be crushed in his strong arms or consumed by his hungry kisses. “Not one.”

“Oh, I don't know,” Angelique said slowly. “You may not agree with him, but the man is certainly politically, socially and globally aware.”

“He is not,” Erica insisted.

“All I'm saying is he's got to be just as well-informed as you are. Otherwise you two wouldn't have anything to argue about, right?”

Erica considered a moment. Angelique had a point, sort of.

“And didn't you tell me that he prays before eating? Sounds like a man who honors a Higher Power to me.”

“Yes, but he doesn't honor human life. He doesn't honor life at all. He's killed people, for heaven's sake!”

There was a short silence before Angelique offered in a low voice: “It was a war, Erica. I know how you feel about war, and I respect that,” she added quickly before Erica could launch into any of a thousand objections and counterpoints. “But once he was in it, what did you want him to do? Lie down and be slaughtered?” She sighed. “He might have killed
some people, but he also saved some. Can't you give the man some credit for that?”

The golden ropes of her friend's argument laced around her like restraints. That and the story she'd been told from the old-timers in the bar about Mark's war experiences. “All the more reason for him to be an antiwar crusader now,” she asserted after the feelings of pride and sympathy for Newman had dissipated. “All the more reason for him to hate violence of any kind.”

“I'm absolutely positive the man doesn't love violence. And so are you, if you'll let go of your precious ideologies for just a minute,” Angelique insisted, fastening a pair of small Diamonique earrings to her lobes before padding around the fluffy, be-pillowed bed to look for her shoes. “All in all, he sounds like your perfect match for the whole nine yards: marriage, family and white picket fence.”

“Bite your tongue!” Erica heard her voice rising and felt the heat of her denial in her cheeks, but she couldn't stop herself. “First of all, he's still a Republican—and a politician! And besides, he eats meat. And he's white! Don't forget that one!” She shook her head. “This would never work, between us. Never.”

“Then just sleep with him,” Angelique said lightly. “Lighten up. Have some fun.”

Erica frowned. “No.”

Angelique sighed. “Okay, Erica. I give up. But I ask you: how many straight men, of any race, have you met who met any of these crazy criteria of yours?”

Erica fell silent, her brain working overtime toward an answer. There had been plenty of first dates with men met at a rally for this or a cause for that. And absolutely no second dates.

“That's what I thought,” Angelique observed. “I
think you've got two lists, E. One you admit to and another that you hold in your heart. I mean, maybe what you like in a guy isn't that he believes in the right causes or eats the right food. Maybe what you want is someone passionate, someone honorable, someone who challenges you, who has a sense of humor. And it never hurts if he's sexy as all hell.”

“He's not sexy as all hell.”

“You just said he was.”

“I did not. I just said…”

Angelique shook her head. “You know something, Erica? You're a hypocrite.”

Hypocrite
. The word stung like a slap. Erica opened her mouth, ready to launch into a full manifesto in her defense, but Angelique picked up her purse and headed toward the door, cutting off her retort with a dismissive, “Now go to your own room and think about it. I gotta go.”

“Where?” Erica asked. “Where are you going?”

“Out.”

“Out where? You don't a soul around here! Do you?”

A wide smile coursed across Angelique's face.

“I've got a meeting,” she replied evasively. “And so do you. St. Matthew's Church, remember?”

 

Thank God for handicapped parking, Erica thought as they pulled into the church's parking lot. They would have been hard-pressed to find another space, as late as they were, and as crowded with cars as the lot was.

And it wasn't Erica's fault.

Mark had been late—almost a half hour late. He arrived smelling wonderful and in a fresh suit and tie—but not looking well. Not looking well at all.

Pale and sweaty. Gray shadows beneath his eyes.
That tightness around the lips that she'd begun to associate with pain. He looked like he was fully in the throes of a bad case of the flu.

“What's the matter?” Erica asked immediately, stepping close to him and swiping her hand across his forehead. It was cool and damp, not feverish as she had expected.

“Nothing,” he muttered, and his lips quirked into that smirk she hated so much. “Musta eaten something that disagreed with me, that's all.”

“You feel nauseous? What did you eat?”

His only response was an irritated frown. “I'm all right.”

“What did you eat?”

He rolled his eyes. “I don't want a lecture, Erica.”

“Just tell me, Mark.”

He sighed. “It's Saturday.”

“Chinese?”

He nodded. “From a takeout place, near my house.” He grimaced. “I was starved, so I guess I ate too fast or something.”

Erica frowned up at him. “Do you think you should call Bitsi? Cancel the evening?—”

“No.” He shook his head. “It's all right. I'm already better.” He tried for a smile and failed miserably. “My stomach's a lot less queasy than it was even an hour ago. I'll be all right. Besides”—he rubbed a palm over his lips and chin—“this close to an election, you show up, no matter what. Every appearance can make a difference.”

“I thought you were way ahead. I thought—”

Another smirk of a smile. “I thought so, too. But after seeing that fax this afternoon, I'm beginning to wonder what's up.”

“Do you know who sent it?”

“I have my suspicions,” he muttered darkly. “And
I'll tell you about them, but not now. We need to get to this town meeting before I lose any more support.”

 

“It's about time.” The orange embers of a cigarette butt beamed evilly in the darkness of the church's carefully tended garden as Mark grabbed Erica's hand and limped quickly up the stone path toward the woman's dark silhouette. “Where the hell have you been?” Bitsi barked. In the stillness of the courtyard, her tone was irritated and commanding. Erica flinched. She sounded like she was the senator.

Apparently, Mark hadn't cared for her tone, either. “I told you: I wasn't feeling well,” he snapped.

Even in the relative darkness, Erica saw the woman's thin lips crimp into a tight scowl. “Well,” she drawled in a tone Erica had often used with her fourth graders. “You're gonna have to do better, Mark. These people vote. Last time they voted for you. Take them for granted and they won't do it again.”

Mark nodded quickly, but Erica felt his fingers tighten around hers. She looked up into his face, but it was inscrutable in the darkness. “What do I need to know?” he asked.

“About what we expected,” Bitsi muttered, tossing her cigarette onto the flagstones and fishing into her handbag to produce a notepad. “The perennial three: jobs, schools, taxes. And the new one.” She cut her eyes at Erica. “The war. They still support it, but they want to know there are plans to bring the kids home.”

Mark nodded. “Okay. Anything else?”

Bitsi's eyes slashed at Erica again. “They're a little curious about her. Most of them got that little fax, too.” She said the word like it was something nasty she'd been forced to eat. “But if I were you, I really wouldn't get too far down that path with this crowd.
Save it for the debate day after tomorrow. Where you can get the most mileage out of her and this whole mess.”

It's a good thing for Bitsi he's holding my slapping hand
, Erica thought.
Otherwise…

“Gee, Bitsi,” Erica said, managing to keep her voice calm and sweet. “You really know how to hurt a girl. How much mileage has he gotten out of you?”

Bitsi ignored her. “We'd better get you in there,” she said quickly, smoothing Mark's suit jacket around his shoulders with an almost maternal air. “I don't really care for this suit—it makes you look boxy—but oh well. And if I'd known you were looking this gray, I'd have brought my compact. Too late now.” She tsktsk'd. “Hope they won't think you're sick. No one wants to vote for a man who looks like death warmed over.” And she nodded toward the latticed windows of the sanctuary beyond.

Erica followed her gaze and saw what appeared to be a large multipurpose room, lined with folding chairs filled with people. The room was every bit as crowded as the high school auditorium had been. Apparently the folks of Mark's state took their politics very seriously.