style="font-size:15px;"> Sam pulled a piece of paper from the box. Outside the classroom they would write questions down and slip them into each other’s locker. He’d kept them all. Not just academic questions like, “What does Moby Dick represent?” but life questions and riddles and puzzles.
He looked at the one he’d grabbed.
Question: “Why did the punk rocker cross the road?”
Answer: “He was stapled to the chicken.”
Sam smiled, then he remembered the one that had changed the tone of their questions. “Do you think Marsha Crandall is sexy?” she’d asked, referring to a classmate. It was the first time she’d asked a provocative question. “I told her as much just the other night,” he answered, teasing, lying.
Dana had snubbed him for three days after that, but eventually it led to many more provocative questions, a flirtation on paper, although they still didn’t talk outside of class much, and usually only about a project or paper. But she always looked at him expectantly, as if waiting for him to make some kind of move. He didn’t have any moves to make. He wouldn’t have known a move if it stood naked in front of him and waved its arms.
And now he needed to write her a note, thanking her for keeping the medal. Thank-you notes weren’t his forte. He offered thanks in person, or he sent flowers or wine or something else appropriate for the favor.
What does one give the woman who has everything?
The next night Dana pulled in to her driveway after dinner at Lilith’s. She’d made it through the day and evening without showing the letter to anyone. Threats were nothing new, although she’d never gotten one quite like this.
If you run for reelection, I’ll make public everything I know about your saintly late husband.
Randall had been in the public eye all his life. What was there to tell? Why the emphasis on “saintly”?
She should turn the note over to her chief of staff, who would make a decision about whether to take it seriously, but something stopped her. If it had been a threat to expose her for past deeds, she would have let the blackmailer dig. There was nothing to find, nothing shocking or newsworthy, anyway.
But this was Randall’s reputation. She would guard it with her life—and her political career. Still, did one letter necessitate an investigation?
Dana felt a brush of fabric against her calves as she walked from her garage into the house. She’d gone straight from work to Lilith’s after changing into something feminine and flattering at the office. The evening turned out to be lovely, her “date” a patent attorney, newly divorced and attentive, and entirely too agreeable. Lilith was known for throwing parties that inspired great debates long into the evening. She and her husband may be conservative, but they knew the value of cultivating people of varying convictions.
Tonight hadn’t been any different, and yet it had been. The mix of people wasn’t as diverse. Dana could also see that Lilith wasn’t feeling well. They’d gone into her office to look at the birth announcements she’d already started designing on her computer, which was the only excuse Dana could think of for getting Lilith alone for a few minutes.
“You crafty person,” Dana said, admiring the design. “I don’t know how you find the time.”
“When it’s fun, you make the time.”
Dana settled a hand on her friend’s shoulder and looked closely at her. “You don’t seem yourself tonight. Are you doing too much?”
Lilith laid a protective hand on her belly. “Braxton Hicks,” she said, as if Dana was supposed to know what that meant. Lilith explained that they were contractions, but not the kind indicating imminent birth, just discomfort.
Because Lilith wasn’t up to par everyone agreed to make it an early evening, which was fine with Dana. The patent attorney asked if he could call her, and she’d given him her office number then headed home.
When she heard the television on in her housekeeper’s room, she knocked on the door and waited. Hilda would never call out for her to enter but would come to the door, wearing her pristine white chenille robe like a suit of armor. She’d been with Randall’s family forever and was in no hurry to stop working, even though she was eligible for social security and Medicare. She also believed in a strict employer/employee relationship, much to Dana’s disappointment. She could have used a friendly face around the house in the months after Randall died.
“Good evening, ma’am,” Hilda said.
“Hi. How were your days off with your daughter and grandchildren?”
“Fine, thank you. How was your evening at the Pauls’?”
“Very nice.” Invite me in. Let’s open a bottle of wine, and talk. “Any messages?” Did Randall have secrets?
“I heard your private line ring, but no one called otherwise.”
Her tone wasn’t hostile or condescending, but efficient. Dana stifled a sigh. “Thank you, Hilda. Good night.”
Mission not accomplished, but she would keep trying. One day she’d get past Hilda’s reserve.
In the foyer Dana touched the small stack of mail, hesitated, then flipped through it. Nothing but ads. She blew out a little breath before climbing the stairs. She plopped onto her bed, pushed the message button on her answering machine and began unbuttoning her dress.
“Hello, dear.” Her mother. “Dad and I are having too much fun. We’re staying an extra week in Orlando before we hit the road. Talk to you soon. We love you.”
“Senator, it’s Amanda.” Her press secretary. “I need a meeting with you first thing in the morning, if that’s possible. If not, please let me know. Otherwise I’ll be there at eight. Thanks.”
“Hi, Dana, this is Candi. I’m sorry to leave this on your machine but Mr. G. passed away. I knew you’d want to know. The funeral’s on Saturday. Mrs. Giannini would like you to say a few words, if you plan to come. Let me know, okay?”
Dana recalled Mr. G. fondly but more as her father’s friend than as a teacher. She wondered if her parents would alter their plans to be home in time for the funeral. They would have to drive their motor home straight through.
“Dana, it’s Sam Remington.”
She’d just slipped her dress off her shoulders, exposing one of the new bras she’d spent her lunch hour purchasing in a rare moment of indulgence—sexy bras, panties and a couple of negligees—even though Sam had made it clear he wasn’t going to contact her again.
“It’s 8:10,” he continued, his voice alone causing her body to react. Oh, she had it bad for him. “I’m at LAX, headed back to San Francisco. If you could give me a call sometime, I’d appreciate it. Thanks.”
He wanted her to call? After the way he’d left the other night? Shock fought with hope in her mind. She looked at the clock—ten-fifteen. He was probably en route, which meant she had to wait until morning to return the call.
Or, if she waited half an hour, she might catch him before he went to bed.
She
