Death of a Political Plant (4 page)

On their way back to the party, Tom seemed measurably more relaxed. She reassured him. “I understand what you want, and I’ll do my best for you with Marty.”

“Good girl,” he said, giving her a fond look and squeezing her upper arm in a gesture of approval. “I’ll call you.” Then he delivered her to Bill, gave her husband a mock half-salute, and strode quickly away.

What a strange throwback of a man, Louise thought. Good girl, indeed: She hadn’t heard that since she had requested her father to stop saying it to her back in 1975. She tossed her long brown hair and slipped her arm through her husband’s; Bill was standing in his own little crowd of people. “Darling,” she said sotto voce in his ear, “now that I have my marching orders from your friend Paschen, it’s time to chow down before the scavengers eat it all.”

But it was not to be: Someone came up from the crowd behind her and rested his hand under her elbow. She turned and looked into the sallow, bony face of Franklin Rawlings. Black evening attire accentuated his cadaverous look. His thin hair was combed optimistically over his balding pate. His eyes
were unusual, Louise thought, shining with an almost messianic intensity. His amiable smile that seemed to signal all was right with the world was firmly in place.

“Now, is it my turn to get to the gardening lady who loves the environment? You are Louise Eldridge, I believe?”

“Why, yes, Mr. Rawlings.” She twisted away to give herself some space and extended her hand. As with royalty, Franklin Rawlings assumed she knew who he was. “This is my husband, Bill.” The two men shook hands.

“I just saw Tom Paschen holding your attention,” Rawlings said, “for an inordinate amount of time, considering it’s Tom. Most likely he was promoting that pie-in-the-sky environmental bill that was passed in the waning moments of Congress.”

“Are you telling me that it won’t hold?”

He stepped closer to her to give his words an air of confidentiality. “Mrs. Eldridge, it’s easy to draw the conclusion that Mr. Paschen wants you to do one of your excellent programs on the President’s bill.” He raised a finger, as if he were a teacher giving gentle instruction to a pupil. “But before you decide to do it, you should look at the poll figures: The sentiment in this country is rapidly shifting. People want jobs from the land, and they don’t want huge tracts set aside for the use of a few effete hikers and bikers.” She was taken aback by the contrast between his pleasant expression and his harsh words. “Congressman Goodrich has now pulled even with the incumbent, and the election is three months away. The odds for a Goodrich landslide are big, and that means a new congress and repeal of that giveaway bill.”

“You seem very confident,”

Rawlings looked down at her like a fond uncle. “Very. But I don’t want to press you too much on the issue. I’m certain that WTBA-TV has the wisdom to do the right thing. And
then sometime soon we’ll have to talk about Congressman
Goodrich’s
plans for the environment.”

Still smiling, he moved away to join another group. Bill said to her, “Still hungry?”

From another corner of the room she could see Tom Paschen scowling over at her. “Not very,” Louise replied.

I
T WAS AT THE END OF A LONG
day. They had been on location in Manassas, Virginia, doing a show on the restoration of an Early American garden near the Occoquan River. Their attire was an echo of colonial life: Louise in a flowing mauve skirt and lace-edged blouse; and John Batchelder, her cohost, in a loose-fitting poetic shirt that emphasized John’s dashing looks. When they were finished there, Marty Corbin had insisted they return
to the station to discuss program ideas for Gardening with Nature.

The producer was large, with dark, curly hair, shaggy eyebrows, and big brown eyes that most of the time were filled with life, fire, and kindliness. Sitting in Martyrs office for one of his typical “upowwows,” he outlined to them an ambitious travel schedule that threw Louise into a profound silence.

Marty described his ideas with dramatic gestures of his big hands: “We’re not gonna be one of these garden programs that think the East Coast, with its rich, acidic soil, is all there is. We’re gonna
travel
, Louise, and we’re not going to leave out one growing zone. We’re even going to Hawaii and Alaska, how’ dja like that? We want all fifty states to watch your program, not just the thirteen original.”

John Batchelder, slouched in a chair opposite hers, smiled and nodded approval. “It’s high time we did it, Marty.”

She didn’t know what to say. The Eldridge home life had already been seriously impinged upon by her full-time job and her extra voice-over work with Atlas Mowers. How much more away-time could her family handle?

Marty read her expression. “Think of it this way, Louise: at least it will discourage houseguests.” He grinned at her, anxious to have her happy.

It seemed a propitious time to ask
him
a favor in return. She quickly laid out her proposal for a two-part program on the President’s environmental bill, making it sound as if the idea came from her.

“You’re kiddin’.” His eyebrows skidded down over his skeptical eyes.

“Why would I be kidding? I am quite serious, Marty. The bill just got through Congress. It’s timely, and the topic merits it.”

He hooted. “Timely, all right: just in time for the November vote. Hey, I know you have a pipeline to the President. Don’t tell me this show is going to save Fairchild’s ass: That man’s down the tubes, Louise; hate to tell you.”

She saw he was hungry and impatient, ready to go home to one of his wife Steffi’s fabulous meals. “Okay, but can we talk about it again?”

“Sure we can, when my stomach isn’t protesting.” They left Marty’s office, and the staff drifted off.

When she gathered her things and walked to the lobby exit, a stranger was waiting, smiling at her. It took her a moment to recognize the man, and when she did, her heart began to pound. For an instant, she was swept back to her college days and a romantic interlude in Washington, D.C.

“It couldn’t be. Not Jay McCormick.”

“Oh, yes, it could be,” said the voice, a familiar, jesting baritone.

Tall and slightly stoop-shouldered, he approached her slowly. He came right up and took both her hands in his and gave her one of his crooked Irish smiles. He planted the faintest of kisses on her lips, and it made her tingle.

“Louise, you dear thing, you haven’t changed at all.”

Standing before her was her former boyfriend from that brief summer more than two decades ago when they were both graduate students at Georgetown University. His face was unremarkable, with an anonymity that made you wonder, once he was out of your presence, what he really looked like. No high cheekbones or other defining features; sandy, nondescript hair that tended to fall in his face. Pale blue eyes: again, unremarkable. And yet, a man with an inner light, who could make her heart beat faster simply because he cared more about other human beings than he cared about himself.

That quality had nearly persuaded her to commit herself to Jay McCormick, to go forward into life like a team of missionaries and try to make the world better for suffering people. Then, through a fluke, along came Bill Eldridge from Harvard to the same campus to substitute for another lecturer at Georgetown’s International Institute; she turned onto another path with a man who soon became a spy for his country.

“Outside of the glasses, you haven’t changed, either, Jay.” But even as she spoke, she saw the worry lines in his face: What kind of disappointments had he suffered during the past two decades? He looked to be on hard times: His dress shirt and pants were scruffy.

“Look a little closer, Louise. I’m having one hell of a hard time right now. I came here today because I sort of need a friend. You may not have heard of what I’ve been doing.”

“Oh, I heard different things, that you were speech writing—or was it reporting—out in California.”

“I’ve done both. I live in Sacramento. But I’ve been in Washington for a little while now, five months, actually. I’ve heard about your show and how well you’re doing. I’ve even seen you on that TV ad promoting some mower.”

“Yeah,” she said sheepishly, “on-air spokesman for the Atlas mulching mower. It helps us make ends meet at the Eldridge house.”

“And I also got wind of your detecting.” There came that smile again. “Pretty cool of you, Louise, solving two crimes.”

“All of a sudden, I have a career of my own, Jay. But what kind of a problem are you having? How can I help you?”

He looked around, as if to be sure no one was listening. No fear of that. Channel Five’s crew had gone home. “Let’s just say I’m in a bit of, uh, hot water, and I need a safe place to stay until I finish some writing. Do you know anywhere I
can hole up? I’m trying to avoid hotels and motels. Checked out of one yesterday morning and ended up sleeping in my car.”

As always, she decided quickly. “Come to our place. Bill and I live eight miles from here; it’s just south of Alexandria. We have empty bedrooms, because both of our girls are away.”

“Where are your girls?”

“Martha goes to Northwestern, but this summer she’s involved in a self-help project in Detroit. Janie, our sixteen-year-old, is in Mexico City for three weeks, helping build houses for people.”

Jay raised his eyebrows. “You and Bill have done something right with those kids. As for your offer of a room, that would be perfect, Louise. I won’t bother you. I’ll eat out; if I could just stay for a week or so, it would be a lifesaver.”

A week! The warmth of this reunion suddenly evaporated, and cold reality set in. There went that window of opportunity, that interlude alone with Bill, without kids, without company, maybe making mad love on the living room floor. It dissolved instantly in the name of an old and once very torrid friendship.