Gospel (3 page)

‘Did you call Diane?' he asked as he rose to the mini-bar and poured himself an Evian before returning to the burgundy coloured French neoclassical sofa. His feet had finally begun to feel the pain of twelve long hours on the campaign trail and he knew he had another five ahead of him.

‘Yes,' she said as she walked back into the living area while fixing the iridescent pearl drops on her right ear. ‘Tommy is studying for his spelling bee, and Alicia is already in bed.'

‘Good,' he said. ‘Are my parents here?'

‘According to Connie, they are about half an hour away.'

‘And your mother?'

‘She arrived about twenty minutes ago via the side entrance,' said Melissa. ‘Soon she'll go back out and be driven around the block a few times before arriving officially at the front entrance. I thought it might work better if she got here just before your parents, so that she could turn at the top of the entrance way and greet your family. Lindsay agreed it was a good idea. Terrific photo op – the press will love it.'

‘I am sure they will,' he smiled, accustomed to her innate ability to see the bigger picture. ‘What's Maxine's window?'

‘Three hours. Mother will stay for dinner, talk to as many people as she can and then fly back to DC. She and the President are expected in New Hampshire first thing tomorrow. I know we had a windfall in the Primary, but better safe than sorry. It's our home state, after all.'

‘How do you do that?'

‘Do what?' she asked.

‘Remember everyone's schedules,' he smiled again.

‘Why, Mr Vice President,' she walked over to him, used her hands to smooth her dress down along the line of her lean but firm thighs, and slowly lowered herself on to the sofa, giving him her best wide-eyed impersonation of innocence. ‘Doesn't everyone do that?'

‘Very funny,' he said as he turned to kiss her.

‘Aren't I just.' She kissed him back, a light peck on the lips, careful not to smudge her perfectly applied makeup.

‘Anyway . . .' She was up again, hooking her white silk purse over the living room chair and checking her appearance in the large gold-framed mirror suspended above the substantial white marble fireplace. ‘As I was saying, New Hampshire was encouraging and . . .'

‘The President is a popular man.'

‘Yes, he is. But what I was about to say was, we all know a vote for Latham is really a vote for you.'

‘Melissa . . .'

‘Oh come on, darling. I am only voicing what we all know to be true. Bob Latham is a good man, a solid performer, but he is also old and infirm. He'll win another term because everyone knows he will either retire or die in office, which means . . .'

‘. . . which means America will lose a great leader,' he finished. She was right, but somehow it felt wrong to vocalise it, even when alone with his wife.

‘You're a good man, Vice President Bradshaw,' she said turning from the mirror to face him.

They stood there looking at each other for a moment before she turned away again. He knew she was mentally checking off the meticulously scheduled order of events that were to follow that evening. He would not have expected any less.

‘I spoke to Jackson,' he said, following her train of thought, ‘. . . got him to make some late changes to my speech. I want to stress our dedication to the new education bill, the expansion of college scholarships, Boston being Boston and all.'

‘Good thinking, darling,' she said, moving back to the bedroom to retrieve a matching pearl bracelet.

‘To be honest I will probably wing it a little tonight,' he went on, lifting his voice a little so that she might hear him. ‘This city was my home for three years. I know these people and they know me. I want to keep it friendly.'

‘Of course,' she said, returning again. ‘But I assume your main emphasis is still on your drug rehabilitation initiatives, and the crime stats to go with it. That
is
the basis of your personal platform, after all. Remember, you can't stray too far from the script. Lindsay is releasing a pre-prepared transcript to the press this evening exactly ten minutes before you go on
stage. That way, all the national papers will have time to run it in their first editions.'

‘It's all in there, Melissa,' he had to smile, at her lawyer's mind and its ingrained checks and balances.

There were times when he wondered if she regretted the decision not to run for public office herself. She had had the opportunity, back in New Hampshire, when her mother was nearing the end of her second term as Governor and being considered for a more significant post in the new Latham administration.

Although she was only thirty, there were suggestions she should run for her mother's soon-to-be-vacated seat. She certainly had the qualifications, having graduated magna cum laude from Yale Law with a major in political science, and then establishing a so far impressive legal career consulting to state and federal governmental departments on everything from the negotiation of trade contracts to the analysis of the nuances of international law.

The Party wanted her, but she had described her decision to decline as a ‘postponement' rather than a ‘refusal' – Melissa was a mastermind at timing, having an inbuilt sense of when to move and when to pull back, and perhaps, at such a young age, she decided the jump was a little too early, a degree premature.

That said, he knew he was the one, if unwittingly, who put a real hold on any potential individual political career plans his wife may have harboured. For, not long after she turned down the Party's offer, she met the young, ambitious assistant AG from the Virginia Attorney General's Office – a good looking, charismatic, forward-thinking young man with high principles and the tenacity to match. And for some reason, she had decided that her ‘eggs' were better placed in his basket, that her energies – personally and professionally – would be more productive if invested in this man, this potential political phenomenon, with all his flaws and lofty ideals.

They were married within months of their first introduction, after which she moved to Richmond, the following year giving birth to Thomas Bradshaw Jnr. She became a wife, a mother, and powerful political ally all at the same time – even managing to hold down a close to full-time position as legal advisor to the Latham administration.

While he had the high goals and more than enough drive to see them through, she was always there – supporting his choices, fostering his political advancement, suggesting, strategising, organising and reinforcing the issues that put votes in his pocket.

She was a huge asset, there was no doubt, but sometimes he could not help but wonder if living vicariously through him would ultimately be enough. She was ‘in' the game, but not the ‘box seat' which in many ways seemed a waste of her incredible political intellect.

Of course, she had never voiced any regrets; never mentioned what
could have
and probably
would have
been if she had chosen an alternative route – but then, when he thought about it, that was probably why he loved her so much, because of her unselfish dedication to
him
, and her magnanimous refusal to dwell on what might have been.

‘All right then,' she smiled, interrupting his thoughts and turning towards the door. ‘I am going to ask Karl if Mother has left the building. As soon as your parents get here, they'll call for us. You have roughly,' she looked at her diamond-clustered Cartier, ‘thirty-nine minutes before you have to head downstairs.

‘I would have preferred that you'd had more time to rest this evening but . . . ,' she looked back towards him, a slip of concern sliding across her flawless features. ‘Oliver mentioned Dick needed a moment.' She was referring to CIA Director Richard Ryan who had requested a late, last-minute briefing with the Vice President.

Despite his friendship with Ryan, Bradshaw knew his wife had little time for the CIA's top man. True, Ryan was not the most personable of characters, but they went
way
back, and her aversion to his oldest comrade had always been a source of discomfort.

‘It's a new problem,' he said. ‘Of special interest to me, and I asked him to keep me updated.'

‘I know he is an old university buddy, darling, and that he has helped you through some hard times, but surely a briefing could have waited until tomorrow morning. You look tired. You could use a few minutes' break.'

‘It's not Dick's fault. I am the one with all the questions.'

‘On national security?'

‘Not so much an external threat, this one could be closer to home. It involves that new corporate drug cartel – I think I mentioned it to you;
A-grade drugs for white collar clients? Dick thinks they may have a distribution base somewhere on the east coast, somewhere with easy access to New York, Boston, Washington.'

‘I remember, but if it's local, then shouldn't it be a matter for the FBI? I mean the CIA have tabs on Panama, but not on Philadelphia.'

‘Dick wants to keep this one to himself,' he said, a slight furrow in his brow.

‘Seriously, CIA . . . FBI, that old rivalry is ridiculous. They really should learn to work together.'

‘True, but that's like asking the Red Sox to work with the Yankees.'

‘Except in this case they really do bat for the same team.'

‘Right, as usual,' he said with a consolatory smile just as they were interrupted by a knock on the door marking the entrance of a turndown housemaid carrying clean towels and refreshments.

‘Come on in,' said Bradshaw, ever the genuine people person. ‘I'm Tom Bradshaw. It's nice to meet you.'

‘It's an honour, Mr Vice President,' said the fresh-faced housekeeper. ‘I hope you don't mind, your personal secretary said it was all right for me to . . .'

‘Of course not. What's your name?' asked Bradshaw as he rose from the sofa and walked across the room towards the marble foyer to shake her hand.

‘Maeve. Maeve Barlow, sir.'

‘It's a pleasure to meet you, Maeve. That's a great Irish name by the way. Did you know it came from the Gaelic name Meabh – who was a warrior queen, if I remember correctly.'

‘Yes, sir,' smiled Maeve. ‘In fact, according to my grandmother the name actually means “intoxicating”. Apparently the warrior queen used her wiles to orchestrate the demise of a mythological villain.'

‘Good for her.'

‘Yes, sir,' beamed Maeve.

‘Darling,' interrupted Melissa, smiling graciously at the young woman who, obviously afraid she had overstepped her role as ‘turndown housemaid', nodded briefly towards the Vice President before going about her duties.

‘I have to check in with Oliver. Promise me you and Dick won't . . .'

‘Ten minutes,' he said reassuringly as he walked her towards the door. ‘Dick and I will be ten minutes tops. I promise.'

‘All right,' she said, lowering her voice. ‘But if you insist on forgoing a rest, I am going to insist on asking Stuart to come up and check on you.'

‘I'm fine. Besides, you know we had a falling out.'

‘Yes, another silly tiff. Honestly Tom, you're like two little boys. He's been your physician for years. Your blood pressure has been high and I think you should . . .'

‘Montgomery and I will get over it. Just allow me the pleasure of watching him squirm for a while. It's part of the fun of sparring with a pompous English professor. Besides, like I said, I feel fine. Better than ever, in fact. This is going to be a good night.'

‘Yes. Yes it is,' she smiled, lifting her hand to his cheek before springing back into action. ‘But nevertheless I am going to ask Stuart to make a quick stop, and I am also going to tell Don to put you and Dick on timer. And then, no other visitors until I come for you.'

‘Dan.'

‘What?'

‘The Secret Service Agent on the door, his name is Dan not Don. He is originally from Dallas, has a wife named Stephanie and two kids – twin six-year-old boys named Eric and Paul.'

‘I knew that,' she said.

‘Of course you did, Gladys.'

She opened the door a fraction before hesitating, turning to say one last thing before she slipped away: ‘You know, the next time you fly into Logan it will be as President.'

He shook his head.

‘All right I know,' she said. ‘Counting, chickens, hatch, all that.'

‘Yes that,' he said. ‘And this . . .' He held her then, feeling an almost compulsive need to kiss her deeply before releasing her.

‘Now look what you've done,' she smiled, pulling back and instinctively blotting the smudges from her top lip.

‘Go then, before I decide to blow off this dinner for a night alone with my beautiful wife.'

And then she squeezed his hand, and smiled one more time before gliding gracefully out the door.

I
t was a rare moment. She was alone.

US Chief of Staff Maxine Bryant would not be staying the night, but she had secured a private suite for herself, a mere three doors away from her daughter and son-in-law, so that she might have this brief moment to prepare for what was to come.

She sat down on the king-sized bed and contemplated the irony of it all.

Everything was going completely as expected and nothing as planned. The Primary results had been spectacular and the President was riding a fresh wave of unprecedented popularity. Her diverse talents in corporate intelligence and street savvy had lifted the ageing patriarch's poll figures beyond anyone's expectations and she was exactly where she did not want to be. Playing bridesmaid once removed in a hierarchy of Presidential contenders.

‘
Look at him
,' she said to herself as she picked up the media kit she had taken from her son-in-law's press secretary. There he was, all wide smile and honest eyes – the face that represented this government's future, and paradoxically a major obstacle to her own.