Fair Game (15 page)

“Dad, don’t do this. It serves no purpose.”

“It was your mother, you see,” Fair said, as if she hadn’t spoken. “Sylvia could never forget that I loved her first; she saw your mother’s shadow everywhere. And you looked just like her. Still do.”

Ashley was silent.

“I had hoped, at first, that since you were close in age to Sylvia you might find things in common and get along. But there was too much resentment, I guess, on both sides, and I just took the easy way out. I was always busy, always preoccupied, and your going away to school seemed to solve so many problems.”

“It did.”

“But not for you, eh?” Fair said.

“Dad, it was so long ago. We all survived it.”

“Did you survive it?”

“Of course.”

“When you volunteered to work with me on the campaign, I thought, She understands now, she wants to be a part of my life. I felt that it would be a healing time for both of us.”

“It has been,” Ashley said gently. “That’s why I wanted to do it.”

“So you forgive me?”

“There’s nothing to forgive. I’ve thought about it, and in your place I don’t know that I would have done any differently. Sylvia was your wife, you wanted her to be happy, and it wasn’t as though you were sending me to a concentration camp. I got a wonderful education, and by the time I got out of school Sylvia felt more secure in her position. We’ve been able to bury a lot of those old bones.”

“Is that really true?” Fair asked.

Ashley was astonished to see that there were tears in his eyes. She got up and embraced him.

“Dad, it’s true. I just couldn’t carry a child’s resentment into adulthood. There were too many mature feelings crowding it out.”

“Ashley, I love you,” her father said, hugging her close. “You’re my first child, and no one will ever take your place in my heart.”

Ashley was silent, her throat closing with emotion.

Fair held her off to look at her. “When you were born, your mother and I didn’t know how to contain our joy. You were such a beautiful baby, and she had such high hopes for you.” He closed his eyes. “I can’t bear the thought that I let her down where you’re concerned.”

“You didn’t.” Ashley stepped back and smiled at him. “You didn’t, Dad. I’ve done what I wanted with my life.”

“But you always seem so lonely.”

Ashley had no reply.

“You’re not in love with Jim Dillon, are you?”

Ashley didn’t answer, refusing to meet his eyes.

Fair stood. “Well, that’s your business. I won’t pry. But I’m glad we had this talk, and if there’s ever anything you need, you won’t hesitate to come to me, will you?”

“I won’t.”

He kissed the top of her head, then wiped his eyes. He walked to the door, glanced back at her once, smiled, and then closed the door behind him.

Well, Ashley thought, who would have thought he had it in him? She knew how hard it had been for him to come to her, and she admired him for it.

She smiled to herself, picked up her book again, and stared at the pages until the tears started to flow.
      

* * * *

Several nights later, Martin was looking out the window of Ashley’s New Hope hotel suite, studying the marquee lights reflected in the wet pavement below. The barge canal across the street was dappled with raindrops, and the wind from the river behind him whipped the trees inside out and back again. It was very late, but he was wide awake. They were moving west in a couple of days, to a Carbon County steel town known to be a Democratic stronghold.

It didn’t matter to Martin where they were; the routine was always the same.

He rubbed his eyes and tried to resist the temptation to have another cigarette. He lost the battle and lit up, standing, the restlessness he felt prodding him into motion. He was physically tired, but mentally too alert to sleep. The fatigue was nothing new. They were all tired from the demanding schedule, but the ceaseless activity wasn’t the hardest part of Martin’s job. The candidate was extremely difficult to protect. He considered himself a man of the people, and liked to mingle, shaking hands and engaging in close contact, disregarding the instructions of his bodyguards. Martin felt as though he were playing football again, chasing a broken-field runner who eluded his grasp. Just that evening Ashley had persuaded her father to listen to Capo’s recommendation that he stick to the dais when Fair wanted to parade through the crowd, gladhanding the masses. Even so, the experience had been taxing for the two cops. Capo was asleep in the adjoining suite, done in after accompanying the Fairs to another of the seemingly endless receptions, and Martin was left with a half-empty pack of Camels and raging insomnia.

He was remembering Dillon kissing Ashley good-bye in the hallway earlier that night, and it was keeping him awake.

After the night at the opera—it was like a Marx Brothers movie, Martin thought sourly—Dillon had returned with a vengeance, as if to make up for his peccadillo on that occasion. He escorted Ashley, both of them dressed to kill, to some affair almost every evening. As she passed ahead of him on Dillon’s arm, smelling deliciously of that tantalizing perfume, Martin wanted to take her aside and tell her that she didn’t have to play the role anymore, that the world wouldn’t fall apart if she just gave it all up and did what she wanted. But of course he said nothing, merely trailed them through each public event like a shadow, watching the somberness of Ashley’s expression in repose change to animation when she found herself observed.

Martin was drawn to her, sensing a loneliness beneath her perfect exterior, a loneliness that matched his beat for beat. He daily confirmed his original opinion that she wasn’t in love with Dillon; he knew that from the way her gray eyes passed over Dillon’s face to settle on his own. He caught her watching him at odd times, but when he would meet her eyes her gaze would shift away from him, and he wondered if he were imagining things.

But he wasn’t imagining the way she would thank Dillon for the gifts he sent with a mild, passionless appreciation, or how she took his phone calls with friendly regard but a noticeable lack of delight.

I’d make her respond, Martin thought fiercely, exhaling a stream of smoke. She wouldn’t be so cool, so distant with me. Then he realized what he was thinking and stubbed his cigarette out with a vengeance.

No more of that, he instructed himself. Distraction, that was the answer. He switched on the portable television the management had thoughtfully provided and tried to watch the late movie. It was one of those black-and-white set pieces from the early sixties with cheap production values and a moody jazz score. It proved incomprehensible and he turned the set off again, going back to the window and sitting on the edge of an easy chair. He drew aside the hotel curtain to look down at the rainy, windswept street.

In a little more than a month it would be over, and he’d never see her again.

The thought should have brought comfort, but what he felt was more like despair.

Inside her bedroom, Ashley could hear him moving about restlessly. They were both awake, both looking for something to do. The impulse to go out and see him was overwhelming, but she was trying to talk herself out of it.

Could she really risk a personal relationship with this man? She was drawn to him so powerfully that reason was sublimated, but she knew that he was as different from her as frost from fire. She felt that she was at a turning point, and that if she did what she was thinking of doing, a line would be crossed that night, forever.

She thought a moment longer and then stood, tying the sash of her robe.

Martin lit another cigarette with resignation. He was dragging on it, his eyes narrowed against the curling smoke, when he felt that he was not alone.

“I’m sorry to disturb, you, Tim,” Ashley said, standing by the door. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“That’s all right,” he replied. “I just didn’t hear you come in.”

“Can’t sleep either?”

She was wearing a pink batiste full-length dressing down, sprigged all over with tiny flowers and belted at her narrow waist.

He shook his head.

“Too many parties,” Ashley said sagely. “You get pumped up for them and then afterward you can’t come down. Believe me, I know.”

“I guess that’s what it is,” he answered, hardly aware of what he was saying. She was backlit by the standing lamp behind her, and he could see the outline of her legs through the thin material covering them.

“I’ve just been wishing that I could take a walk,” she said.

“At two in the morning?”

“I’m hungry. I want a pastrami sandwich.”

He smiled. “Ever heard of room service?”

“Room service stops at midnight. Plus it doesn’t offer deli items.” She smiled conspiratorially. “One of the local people at the reception told me that the Lambertville Diner across the river in Jersey has the best pastrami sandwiches in the area. And it’s open all night.”

He watched her warily, wondering where this was leading.

“I can never eat at these political things,” she said.

“Yes, I know. I’ve had some experience with your habits in that area, remember?”

“But I’m starving now.”

“That’s a good sign.”

“Do you want to join me for a snack?”

“You’re not thinking of walking over there now?” Martin said. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“Why not? I’m not under house arrest here, am I?”

“Of course not, but...”

“Then why can’t I go?”

“It’s raining.”

“I like rain, especially at night. It would be all right, wouldn’t it? I wouldn’t be breaking the rules or anything?”

“I suppose it would be all right,” Martin conceded reluctantly. “If I went with you,” he added.

“Then let’s go. Just give me a minute to change.”

She disappeared into her room, and Martin spent the time until her return wondering if it was really happening. When she came back she was wearing jeans and a sweater with a hooded mackintosh that made her look about sixteen. He bent to pick up his coat, adjusting his shoulder holster as he did so.

She eyed it soberly, but said nothing.

“Ready?” he said.

“Ready,” she replied.

Martin fell into step beside her, feeling as if he were on his first date. He’d had his share of women in the years since his divorce, including the few he would always remember, but he had never known a lady like this. She made him feel awkward, outclassed. And large. Very large.

They descended in the elevator, accompanied by Muzak, and emerged into the lobby, which was almost deserted.

The desk clerk looked up from his glossy magazine, appearing a little nonplussed to see Ashley Fair dressed like a high school cheerleader and taking off into a rainstorm with her father’s bodyguard. But he forgot it instantly, going back to the latest romantic escapades of his favorite TV star.

Ashley pulled her hood up and they stepped through the door. Martin glanced out at the rain, which had let up somewhat and was now only a drifting mist. He glanced back at her saying, “Maybe I should get one of the cars.”

“Oh, no, I’d like to walk. Unless you mind getting a little wet.”

He turned up the collar of his trenchcoat and said truthfully, “I don’t mind at all.”

They set off for the bridge that connected Pennsylvania and New Jersey. It was built to accommodate vehicle traffic down the middle with footpaths on either side. Occasionally a car whooshed past them, creating a plume of spray from the sitting puddles. The streetlights were dim and pearled with moisture, the night air fresh and invigorating, washed clean by the storm.

“It’s nice, isn’t it?” Ashley asked, looking up at him.

He nodded. Surprisingly, it was.

They didn’t say much as they walked across the bridge, but the silence was companionable. The moon appeared intermittently, sometimes obscured by the dissipating rain clouds, and the whole landscape had that eerie stillness associated with the early hours of the morning.

On the other side of the bridge Martin saw the flashing neon sign of the diner on the facing street. It hung over a ramshackle clapboard building that leaned drunkenly toward the sidewalk and seemed to be supported by the more respectable structures on either side.

“Is that it?” he asked, pointing.

“Has to be. The lady I spoke to said you couldn’t miss it. You can’t miss that.”

“Are you sure you want to go there?” he asked, squinting into the distance.

“Why not?”

He glanced down at her. “It looks like a dive.”

Ashley laughed lightly. “You should see some of the places I’ve been, campaigning for my father.”

He sighed doubtfully.

“You’ll protect me, won’t you?” she asked playfully, shooting him a sidelong glance.

“If I remember correctly, that’s why I’m here,” he replied, shaking his head.

“Oh, good,” she said, like a little kid, and ran ahead of him, turning to urge him onward.

When they arrived, Martin’s worst fears were confirmed. The interior of the diner kept unsavory pace with the exterior, and the scattered customers, nursing cups of coffee or shoveling in the blue plate special, looked like extras from On the Waterfront.