each word was a sharp knife.
My mother has driven him away, Leslie thought. She felt sorry for her mother because now there would be a divorce and a custody fight. Her father would never let her go. Never. He’ll come for me, Leslie told herself.
But weeks passed, and her father never called. They won’t let him come and see me, Leslie decided. Mother’s punishing him.
It was Leslie’s elderly aunt who explained to the child that there would be no custody battle. Leslie’s father had fallen in love with a widow who taught at the university and had moved in with her, in her house on Limestone Street.
One day when they were out shopping, Leslie’s mother pointed out the house. ‘That’s where they live,’ she said bitterly.
Leslie resolved to visit her father. When he sees me, she thought, he’ll want to come home.
On a Friday, after school, Leslie went to the house on Limestone Street and rang the doorbell. The door was opened by a girl Leslie’s age. She was wearing a brown velvet dress with lace cuffs. Leslie stared at her, in shock.
The little girl was looking at her curiously. ‘Who are you?’
Leslie fled.
Over the next year, Leslie watched her mother retire into herself. She had lost all interest in life. Leslie had believed that ‘dying of a broken heart’ was an empty phrase, but Leslie helplessly watched her mother fade away and die, and when people asked her what her mother had died of, Leslie answered, ‘She died of a broken heart.’
And Leslie resolved that no man would ever do that to her.
After her mother’s death, Leslie moved in with her aunt. Leslie attended Bryan Station High School and was graduated from the University of Kentucky summa cum laude. In her final year in college, she was voted beauty queen, and turned down numerous offers from modeling agencies.
Leslie had two brief affairs, one with a college football hero, and the other with her economics professor. They quickly bored her. The fact was that she was brighter than both of them.
Just before Leslie was graduated, her aunt died. Leslie finished school and applied for a job at the advertising and public relations agency of Bailey & Tomkins. Its offices were on Vine Street in a U-shaped brick building with a copper roof and a fountain in the courtyard.
Jim Bailey, the senior partner, had examined Leslie’s résumé, and nodded. ‘Very impressive. You’re in luck. We need a secretary.’
‘A secretary? I hoped –’
‘Yes?’
‘Nothing.’
Leslie started as a secretary, taking notes at all the meetings, her mind all the while judging and thinking of ways to improve the advertising campaigns that were being suggested. One morning, an account executive was saying, ‘I’ve thought of the perfect logo for the Rancho Beef Chili account. On the label of the can, we show a picture of a cowboy roping a cow. It suggests that the beef is fresh, and –’
That’s a terrible idea, Leslie thought. They were all staring at her, and to her horror, Leslie realized she had spoken aloud.
‘Would you mind explaining that, young lady?’
‘I …’ She wished she were somewhere else. Anywhere. They were all waiting. Leslie took a deep breath. ‘When people eat meat, they don’t want to be reminded that they’re eating a dead animal.’
There was a heavy silence. Jim Bailey cleared his throat. ‘Maybe we should give this a little more thought.’
The following week, during a meeting on how to publicize a new beauty soap account, one of the executives said, ‘We’ll use beauty contest winners.’
‘Excuse me,’ Leslie said diffidently. ‘I believe that’s been done. Why couldn’t we use lovely flight attendants from around the world to show that our beauty soap is universal?’
In the meetings after that, the men found themselves turning to Leslie for her opinion.
A year later, she was a junior copywriter, and two years after that, she became an account executive, handling both advertising and publicity.
Oliver Russell was the first real challenge that Leslie had had at the agency. Two weeks after Oliver Russell came to them, Bailey suggested to Leslie that it might be better to drop him, because he could not afford to pay their usual agency fee, but Leslie persuaded him to keep the account.
‘Call it pro bono,’ she said.
Bailey studied her a moment. ‘Right.’
Leslie and Oliver Russell were seated on a bench in Triangle Park. It was a cool fall day, with a soft breeze coming from the lake. ‘I hate politics,’ Oliver Russell said.
Leslie looked at him in surprise. ‘Then why in the world are you –?’
‘Because I want to change the system, Leslie. It’s been taken over by lobbyists and corporations that help put the wrong people in power and then control them. There are a lot of things I want to do.’ His voice was filled with passion. ‘The people who are running the country have turned it into an old boys’ club. They care more about themselves than they do about the people. It’s not right, and I’m going to try to correct that.’
Leslie listened as Oliver went on, and she was thinking, He could do it. There was such a compelling excitement about him. The truth was that she found everything about him exciting. She had never felt this way about a man before, and it was an exhilarating experience. She had no way of knowing how he felt about her. He is always the perfect gentleman, damn him. It seemed to Leslie that every few minutes people were coming up to the park bench to shake Oliver’s hand and to wish him well. The women were visually throwing daggers at Leslie. They’ve probably all been out with him, Leslie thought. They’ve probably all been to bed with him. Well, that’s none of my business.
She had heard that until recently he had been dating the daughter of a senator. She wondered what had happened. That’s none of my business, either.
There was no way to avoid the fact that Oliver’s campaign was going badly. Without money to pay his staff, and no television, radio, or newspaper ads, it was impossible to compete with Governor Cary Addison, whose image seemed to be everywhere. Leslie arranged for Oliver to appear at company picnics, at factories, and at dozens of social events, but she knew these appearances were all minor-league, and it frustrated her.
‘Have you seen the latest polls?’ Jim Bailey asked Leslie. ‘Your boy is going down the tubes.’
Not if I can help it, Leslie thought.
Leslie and Oliver were having dinner at Cheznous. ‘It’s not working, is it?’ Oliver asked quietly.
‘There’s still plenty of time,’ Leslie said reassuringly. ‘When the voters get to know you –’
Oliver shook his head. ‘I read the polls, too. I want you to know I appreciate everything you’ve tried to do for me, Leslie. You’ve been great.’
She
