a certain way—to go to the right schools, the right summer camps—to smile at appropriate moments, and to express herself only on noncontroversial topics.
Once she’d become the congressman’s wife there had been a whole new set of expectations. Never once had anyone asked her personal opinion on an important issue. And she most definitely did have opinions, on any number of issues. Nor did they agree very often with those of her father or her husband.
Never once in her entire life could she recall being asked how she would have preferred to spend her vacations. Given a choice, she might have chosen to attend a fiddlers’ convention with her college friends, sleeping in tents, wandering from campfire to campfire listening to the music, sharing food and easy companionship. Instead, she had spent every vacation with one or both of her parents, usually at Clive’s beach house, surrounded by other adults.
Instead of flying lessons, she had taken piano lessons. Instead of choosing her own friends, she’d had appropriate ones chosen for her, at least until she’d gone off to school.
It wasn’t that her childhood had been unhappy, it was just that she’d never been allowed off the leash long enough to discover who she was. And now that she was free to be herself, she didn’t know where to begin, other than wearing thrift-shop jeans, going barefoot and drinking water from her own tap instead of what her Aunt Em had called store-bought water. After a lifetime of pleasing others, she had only herself to please, and the most rebellious thing she had done so far was to stay up half the night reading and then sleep until noon the next day.
These days she couldn’t even manage that. Since she’d started on the long-overdue yard work, tackling one square foot at a time, she was usually so tired she fell asleep in the recliner.
Dull was a matter of degrees. Her life had always been—well, until a little over two years ago—dull, as in boring. Now it was dull as in restful. As in taking time to sniff the roses, not to mention the honeysuckle and corn tassels and whatever else grew in the country. As in trying her hand at writing and illustrating a special story for a little girl she would probably never even get to see.
But right now—at least once she’d caught her breath—it was time for another attack on that blasted board on her front porch that she’d tripped on at least a dozen times. Tomorrow would be time enough to free the rest of her shrubbery from the strangling clutches of those voracious vines.
After rubbing aloe lotion onto her hands, she picked up the daily paper published in the nearby riverside town. Sipping her milk, she skimmed articles about people she didn’t know, who didn’t know her. There wasn’t a speck of world news, rarely even a political commentary. She liked it that way. She read the obituaries of people she’d never heard of, wedding announcements for young hopefuls who had no idea of the pitfalls ahead. She read notices of fiftieth wedding anniversaries, wondering if the couples knew how fortunate they were, and tried not to feel sorry for herself. Given a choice, she knew she would never go back to her old life.
She read about club meetings and historical reenactments and the progress being made on the town’s museum. She read about an art show and a moth-boat regatta and considered attending. Mingling with real people again.
One of these days she was going to have to return to the real world and find work. Find some way to make her liberal arts degree support her, because Kitty’s needs would continue to grow—clothes and schools and health insurance. Her trust fund wouldn’t last much longer at the rate she was depleting it, but she refused to accept a penny from her father. Not that he’d offered. Where J. Abernathy Jones was concerned, every penny came with strings attached.
One string, she suspected, led to Clive Meadows. She’d known Clive for years. It was his beach house they always used. She had met only one of his three wives and been shocked that the girl was so young.
Not surprisingly, she rarely liked her father’s friends. Clive was no better, no worse than most. Once, before she’d married Stan, when Clive was between wives, he had asked her out to dinner. She had declined. A few nights later he’d invited her to a concert. She had thanked him and pleaded another engagement.
Her father had been in Scotland when Stan had been killed in a one-man accident that had been deemed a suicide. Clive had been there to offer comfort and professional advice, to steer her through the formalities. At the time she had gratefully accepted his help.
But as for anything more, Sarah, at age thirty-seven, was far too old for a man of his tastes—his wives had been barely out of their teens. Of course, she might have imagined his interest. Distraught, she could easily have read too much into a few innocent shoulder pats, a few avuncular hugs and the offer, after Stan’s private memorial service, of a quiet month at his beach house at Duck.
At any rate, she was safe now, and as long as she could continue paying for Kitty’s needs and stretch what was left to cover the necessities—food, books, utilities and property taxes—she intended to stay put. Loneliness was a small price to pay for peace of mind.
Rocky rounded a sharp curve on the narrow highway, humming along with something or other by Sibelius. Years out of practice, he hit only about every fifth note correctly, but then, that was between him and the composer, and the old guy wasn’t complaining.
He felt good about what he was doing. Righteous, in fact, which was a big improvement over feeling nothing. Thank God something had come along to drag him out of his lair.
It had already occurred to him that someone else might have already warned her. But in case they hadn’t, she needed to know what was about to hit the fan. It probably wouldn’t amount to much more than a few jokes on Leno and Letterman, a few sound bytes and film clips—maybe a rehash in the tabloids. After a week at most, the whole thing would die a natural death, but meanwhile, a heads-up might be appreciated.
Besides which, he’d needed a mission. Lately he’d been aware of a growing sense of restlessness. The trouble with being a retired journalist was that the brain refused to retire.
Okay, so he would warn the widow and while he was in the area he might look around for something to quicken his interest. Frontline reporting from the agricultural scene? He could do an investigative piece on the pork industry, maybe hang it on the hook of environmental pollution versus genetic engineering. Would reshuffling a few pig genes render hog lagoons obsolete?
He whistled along with the familiar theme of “Finlandia” and wondered how long it had been since he’d whistled. Or hummed anything. Once an enthusiastic sing-alonger, it had been years since he’d been enthusiastic about anything.
When his watch beeped at noon, he switched off the CD and turned on the news.
“—at Camp David. The meeting is scheduled to cover—” He changed stations and caught the tail end of a report on the latest airline disaster, waited through a string of commercials and heard the farm report. Nothing about the Cudahy book. Maybe he’d overestimated the threat. It might not show up at all in this particular market. Even so, it was about time for the publisher to start chumming the waters if they hoped to see people lined up outside the bookstores, money in hand, on laydown day.
Meanwhile, he’d do well to work on his tactics. “Mrs. Sullivan, I’m an independent journalist, and I’ve come to warn you about—”
Yeah, right. Considering what she’d been put through these past few years, that might not be the best approach. Direct was his favored method, but direct in this case would probably get him kicked out on his keester. The lady had no reason to welcome the press.
Of course, it wasn’t too late to call
