Valentine Vote (9 page)

Still ringing, Helen retrieved it, snapped the cover back on, and answered. “Capitol Hill Escort Service; we aim to please.”

Courtney could hear Eric laughing in the background. Great.

“She's here. Just a minute.” Helen handed the phone to Courtney.

Courtney took a deep breath before answering. “Do you think they've tapped our phones?”

“Not unless you're a security risk.”

“I may be.”

“And I thought you couldn't get more interesting.” Eric laughed, again.

“I can't believe you think this is funny.” Courtney huffed.

“It's just a blip, Court.”

She loved that he called her Court.

“Tell you what,” he said, “we both need a break from this town. I have to go to Winston-Salem next weekend to check on my parents' house while they're in Europe. Why don't you escape with me?”

Helen, who'd had her ear pressed to Courtney's, nodded emphatically and mouthed,
yes
!

This getaway could be her last hurrah with Eric. She'd tell him they couldn't continue this ridiculous … whatever … and that they'd need to call it quits. But in the meantime, she'd have a lovely weekend with him, sort of for old time's sake, like there'd ever been any old times.

“Okay,” Courtney said.

“Great. I'll have Lorena book us out on Friday afternoon, returning Sunday. Will that work?”

“Is she discreet?” Courtney chewed on her lip.

“She's more than discreet. She's worked for my family since before I was born. She knows all our secrets.”

• • •

Lorena Eddington looked at her boss over the top of her glasses. “You think it's wise being seen with this woman, especially after this morning's story in that rag newspaper?” She picked up files from her inbox.

Eric nodded. “Nothing she can say will change my vote, so the only way being seen with her could negatively affect either of our careers is if I caved.”

“Then it would look like she'd traded favors.”

“Which neither of us would ever do.”

“She's a smart woman. Doesn't she know you're dug in?”

“I don't think so. She still thinks she can convince me, which is why being seen with me is such a threat.”

“When do you plan to clue her in?”

“Good question.” Eric paced in front of Lorena's desk. “I would have already told her I wouldn't budge, but I don't want her to write me off.”

“Because you want to continue to see her?”

“Exactly.”

“You must really like her.” Lorena pushed her glasses up her nose. “But is that fair? Aren't you leading her on?”

Eric slumped into the leather settee where visitors usually waited for appointments. “I want her to like me for who I am—apart from the tobacco issue.”

“You're hoping if she gets to know the real you, she'll overlook the smoke coming out of your ears?” Lorena smiled then sat up a bit taller. “I've got it. Show her all the great things tobacco money has done for Winston-Salem, like the university, the airport, and the hospital.”

“She's not easily swayed, Lorena.” Eric scrubbed a hand over his eyes and pushed himself off the settee.

“And I thought no one could resist your charm.” Lorena winked at him.

“Tell
her
that.” Eric checked his watch. His two-thirty meeting had cancelled, which afforded him this rare leisure time, but he had to brush up on his three o'clock, due anytime now. As he walked into his office and closed the door, he wished his problems with Courtney were as simple as a difference in tobacco policy.

They'd be alone in his parents' big house this weekend, sleeping under the same roof. Though with sixty-four rooms and guest rooms in a separate wing, it could be more like being in adjoining counties—unless she was in his room.

Maybe they'd get to the crux of what they both needed. Eric gazed at the photos on his wall, stopping at the framed riding crop. When Courtney had seen it, they'd locked eyes. He thought about riding her lush bum, but he'd never use a crop . He could never hurt her.

No direct flights from D.C. to Winston-Salem fit their schedule, so they had a brief stop in Charlotte to change planes. After consulting The Weather Channel, Courtney packed light. She took a couple of sweaters and a three-quarter length, all-weather coat for a possible light snow, though the temperatures were expected to hover in the low fifties for most of the weekend. Eric said it was a typical North Carolina winter, but he added that the weather in general was warmer than he'd remembered it growing up. No doubt global warming at work.

When they arrived in Winston-Salem, Eric picked up the car he kept at the airport while Courtney waited at baggage claim. He strode back into the terminal to take their bags while people did double takes. The Roark/Morrison family members were obviously like royalty in this town.

The short drive from the airport to the entrance of Roark Manor became five minutes longer as the evergreen-lined boulevard meandered through Roark property. “We're almost there,” Eric said as they rounded a turn and a split-rail fence gave way to wrought iron gates. Eric stopped at the gate to punch in his code at the key pad.

Courtney stared in awe as the expansive estate came into view. “It's breathtaking,” she said. Her eyes scanned from side-to-side to take it all in—two stories and broad as a football field, but it didn't overwhelm the landscape. Matching wings abutted the main house, creating a gentle “u” shape that hugged a circular driveway. The house seemed to grow out of the earth, like it had checked in with the majestic oaks and pines to get their acceptance before laying its foundation. A porch ran the full length of the first story, and Courtney imagined revelers decked out in finery and sipping mint juleps. But that would be in summertime. Today, they'd be clad in furs around a bonfire, drinking mulled wine. With a few icicles dangling from the covered porch, the house looked like a frosty, but approachable, queen.

“My great-grandfather built it in 1912,” Eric said. “There's a full working farm on the property and a village with shops and restaurants. Granddad Roark built the village to serve the farm laborers and house staff. He also built a school and church. It was a true sustainable community and in many ways, still is.”

Eric stopped the car in the circular drive at the front door.

“You said your parents are away. Will we be alone in the house?” Courtney hoped.

“Just you and me … and the staff,” Eric said.

“Staff? What is this,
Downton Abbey
?”

At that moment, the front door opened, and a gentleman who looked to be in his late fifties, bounded to the car. “Mister Eric, it's so good to see you!” The smile on his face was broad and genuine.

Mister Eric? This is
Downton Abbey
.

“Nice to be home, Randolph. May I introduce you to my friend, Courtney Larson? Courtney, this is Randolph Small. He manages the house.” Eric handed Courtney's bag to Randolph.

“I joined the Roarks thirty years ago,” Randolph said.

“And he's indispensable,” Eric said.

Randolph beamed. Obviously, he and Eric were fond of each other.

Courtney stepped into the massive reception hall and inhaled a deep breath of lemon furniture polish, warmed by a crackling fire. The entire room gleamed with rich wood, from the inlaid parquet floors to the exquisite pipe organ and the enormous claw feet on the matching sofas that framed the fireplace. Double staircases led from each side of the fireplace to a second floor balcony that encircled the room.

“My parents were married in front of that fireplace,” Eric said, nodding to the marble mantel and expansive hearth. “And in the old days when my great-grandparents lived here, they used to roll up the rugs and host huge parties for the villagers.”

Randolph started up the stairs. He stopped and turned at the landing. “We set up the Truman room for Miss Larson.”

“The Truman room, as in President Harry?” Courtney asked.

“Yes, he's our claim to fame … the one president who slept in this house. He came to Winston-Salem for the dedication of the university.”

“Which your family funded?”

Eric nodded and then pointed to an arched doorway to the right of the reception hall. “That's the library. Want to meet me there in a half-hour or so? Randolph will take you to your room. You can unpack and get comfortable.”

Courtney felt she had stepped back in time, particularly when the grandfather clock chimed. The melodious sound echoed through the reception hall.

“Five o'clock,” she said, “must mean it's time for sherry?”

Eric smiled wryly. “I prefer a local microbrew.”

Courtney headed up the stairs, where Randolph motioned for her to follow him. She stopped to look back at Eric. “Do I dress for dinner?”

“I'm going to change into jeans and a sweater, so just get comfortable. We're not entertaining a president tonight.” He turned to ascend the staircase on the opposite side of the fireplace.

No, but doesn't the vestal virgin count for something?
As she watched him disappear into the opposite wing, she mused about their sleeping quarters being so far apart. She wished he'd just taken her bags to his room, but of course, he wasn't a man to make assumptions. And besides, there was the issue of propriety. She was reminded of Katherine Howard, fifth wife of Henry VIII, who ran through the corridors of Hampton Court, searching for Henry to plead for mercy. Wait a minute, what did losing one's head have to do with losing one's virginity? Not much, she hoped.

• • •

Courtney unpacked in the Truman room, where ivory, dial telephones donned the bedside table and the elegant ladies' desk. The whole house dripped old money, but there was nothing ostentatious about it. The Morrisons didn't need to toot their horns. Everyone knew who they were. But it was more than that. This house exuded old world sophistication, and the way it was tucked into the land made Courtney feel embraced. This was a family home.

She sighed. Why had Eric brought her here? Was this the venue of a final confrontation on tobacco, or in the words of Helen, would this be the scene of her
cherry pop
? Talk about a lasting memory.

And where did you surrender your virginity, Courtney? What's that? Speak up, girl.

You were spending the weekend at the Morrison/Roark mansion in North Carolina?

That would be the Morrisons and Roarks of tobacco fame?

And aren't you a lobbyist for the opposition?

Shame on you, Courtney.

Yeah, shame on me.
Courtney unpacked with a wicked smile. She laid out a pale pink cashmere sweater and her J. Crew lilac cords. Slipping off her traveling clothes, she shrugged into the soft sweater, belted her jeans with skinny leather, and bent over to fluff her hair. When she straightened and finger-crimped her hair, she spritzed it with her favorite crunchable spray, and then took ballet flats from a plastic bag. She liked the idea of being so much shorter than Eric. She could wrap her arms around his taut middle and tuck her head under his chin. She swept blush across her cheeks, dabbed on a thin layer of peppermint pink lip gloss and checked herself in the mirror. Yep, she looked ripe—and ready.

She found Eric in the dining room, sipping a beer as he leaned against a massive sideboard that looked like it had been fashioned from an ancient oak, complete with all the gnarls and knots. It was a modern juxtaposition to the Duncan Phyfe dining room table that sat twelve, but everything blended beautifully. Courtney had the feeling that no decorator had put this eclectic mix together. No, the impeccable taste of the residents had been at work. And Eric inherited that taste.

“Beer?” he asked. “I'm afraid the fall brews are all gone, and we won't have any new locals until spring, but I've got a great raspberry ale.”

“Love one,” Courtney said as she watched Eric pull open a drawer in the sideboard that turned out to be a mini cooler. “What's for dinner?”
I could go for flank of Eric.

“Randolph's wife, Katherine, left us something in the warming oven. Honestly, I haven't looked.” He hooked his finger in a “come hither,” and turned to the doorway that led to the kitchen.

The first impression of the kitchen was its lack of color. Gleaming white. From cabinets and appliances to the white tile backsplashes, it looked like a place where a wedding banquet for hundreds of guests could be whipped up in a matter of hours. All the counter tops were stainless steel, and the huge appliances screamed utilitarian. “Wow, I feel like I'm in the kitchen of the Waldorf Astoria. It's so industrial.”

“When this house was built, it was all about hygiene. My great-grandmother wanted a kitchen that could be hosed down. She was quite the innovator in germ warfare. She established her own dairy to protect her children from milk-borne illnesses, and she had specific instructions on how milkers' hands and cows' udders had to be washed with soap and water before milking.”

“With the kind of money she had, I suppose she could do anything,” Courtney said.

Eric dipped his head and looked at Courtney through his eyelashes. “It wasn't about money. She was driven by social reform. My family has great respect for farmers. There's nothing more vital than tilling the earth, and my great-grandmother wanted farmers to be successful. She tested new methods of crop rotation and soil analysis, all to support the individual farmer.”

“Who was growing her tobacco, of course.”

“Sure, there was tobacco, but that was just one of many crops. She wanted to make all the local farms self-sustaining. I wish you could have seen how hard these people worked, and my ancestors worked right alongside them. Clearing fields is back-breaking labor, and even the women dug out and moved rocks the size of buckets.”