Smoke and Mirrors (36 page)

"The Chamber of Commerce talk went great," Nick said, drifting toward the coffee maker. "Rosemary nailed them on waste
in the defense budget—reeled off a long list of examples without even referring to her notes."

"We should have Charlottesville in the bag," Jeff said. "Albemarle County has gone Democratic in the last umpteen presidential elections, even the Reagan landslide. Our own polls show a comfortable lead."

"Yeah, right. I think we should concentrate on fringe areas now. Rosemary, I know you're sick of hearing this, but you have got to make another swing through the southwest—"

"Keep your shirt on, Joe," Rosemary said. "I'm making an appearance there next week. A coffee. Roanoke. Tuesday. How about that?"

"You didn't tell me." Joe's formidable eyebrows sloped into a V. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I knew you'd try to set up a couple of dozen other appearances. I haven't time for that. I'm only doing this one because the subject is so important to me. "

"What subject?" Joe demanded.

Rosemary's smile was seraphic. "Gun control. '

"Gun—gun—gun control! Jesus Christ, Rosemary, are you out of your mind? There are five shotguns per household in that part of the state. Some of em have never tasted store-bought meat. What are you—why ..."

It dawned on him that he was being set up, and he sputtered to a stop. Rosemary's dimple had put in an appearance, and Nick was grinning—though there was a touch of sheepishness in his expression. It was Will who caught Erin's attention, however. His silences had begun to fascinate her; they were not simply an absence of speech, they varied in intensity and type and carried an astonishing variety of unspoken messages. Catching her curious gaze, he lowered one eyelid in a wink.

"You didn't ask who was sponsoring the coffee," Rosemary said.

"Okay," Joe said warily. "So I'm asking."

"Remember the story in last week's Roanoke paper, about the eight-year-old who shot and killed his little brother while he was playing with daddy's .45 Magnum?"

"There are stories like that all the time," Joe muttered. "How
do you expect me to ... Oh my God. Don't tell me. It isn't ..."

"The mother," Rosemary said.

Erin gasped, and even Joe, the cynical old campaigner, looked shocked. But only for a split second.

"Did you set this up?" he demanded of Nick.

"Will suggested it," Nick said. "He found the clipping. We talked it over, and I made a quick trip to Roanoke the other day." He glanced at Erin and added defensively, "She suggested it. I swear she did. She talked. . . . Did she talk! Said the other women in the area, and a lot of the men, were sick of seeing kids getting blown away, sick of watching the NRA buy votes of congressmen whose constituents overwhelmingly favor some form of handgun control."

"Some of that was in the newspaper story," said Will in his soft voice. "The last part, as you probably realize, was Nick."

"Some of it was in the story, but believe me, it wasn't like actually hearing her." Nick's face was bleak. "It wasn't one of the happiest visits I've ever paid to a voter. I think it did her good, though. She . . . she broke down and cried, finally. All over my best tie."

"I had already written her a letter of condolence," Rosemary said. The dimple was long since gone and her voice had the note of crisp efficiency that often covered strong emotion. "I always write to the families in cases like that. That's one of Will's jobs, to find relevant stories. He didn't tell me what he and Nick were planning until after it had been arranged, but I approved wholeheartedly."

"I guess even an old dog like me can learn something from beginners," Joe said handsomely. "Good work, guys. I suppose you've arranged for full media coverage, Nick? Hey—how about '20/20,' or 'Nightline?' I could call Koppel—"

I already did. His assistant said he'd pass the idea on, but everybody has done the gun-control bit. The Washington stations are all sending crews, though."

"Great." Joe rubbed his hands and beamed like Scrooge after his reformation.

"Pray for good weather," Will said. "She's arranged an open-air meeting, in the park."

Joe looked doubtful. "She's arranging it? Listen, Nick, you
better keep an eye on her. Tactfully, of course—like Id do it. Amateurs don't know how—"

"She's no amateur," Nick said. "You haven't heard the kicker yet, Joe. Mrs. O'Malley happens to be the president of the County Right-to-Life Chapter. She's an old pro at organization; ran a couple of the marches on Washington. "

Joe seemed less bemused by this information than Nick himself. "People," he said with a shrug. "So now she's endorsing Rosemary? Fantastic! Great publicity!"

"It's not so surprising," Rosemary said. "She just decided that the right to life applies to children as well as fetuses."

Erin was the first to say good night. As she had hoped he would, Nick followed her out of the room and caught up with her at the foot of the stairs.

"Are you mad at me?' he asked.

"What about?"

"Taking advantage of that woman's personal tragedy for our own purposes. It may seem like a rotten thing to do, but—"

"Oh, that. " Erin leaned wearily against the banister. "Either I'm becoming hardened to political reality, or I've learned that moral issues are seldom as simple as they seem. Does it bother you?"

. "Yeah, some." Nick propped himself against the opposite wall, like a matching bookend. Even his eyelids sagged. "God, I'm tired. Well, I'm glad you don't think any the less of me for being a lousy opportunist. You looked as if you had bitten into something spoiled."

"I did. Yesterday."

Nick began, "Moral issues aren't always—"

"This one is. Was my father a criminal or wasn't he? You can't get much simpler than that."

"It's a lot more complicated than that and you know it. The point is not whether your father was a crook. The point is that he's dead and buried." Erin gasped. Nick passed a weary hand over his mouth and then went on, "I'm too tired to think what I'm saying. I didn't put that very well. Look at it this way: Your father can't be hurt, he's out of it. But Rosemary ..."

"Always Rosemary! All right, what about her? Not long ago you were all gung ho about saving her from scandal. What have you done for her lately?"

"You know what I've been doing. The campaign—" "May come to a crashing halt if what you suspect is true." "All right, all right. I know. But I can't take time off at this stage without arousing a lot of curiosity. Be fair, Erin, you haven't had time either. I'm sure Kay has had you on the run—"

"I found time to look through a couple of dozen phone books. Brown isn't listed."

"Brown. Oh, you mean that ... I can't think what to do next,
then."

"You can't think, or you prefer not to discuss it with me? My father is dead—and buried, as you so nicely put it—but I'm alive, and it would be naive of you to trust me. You just can't trust anybody these days, can you? Especially where something as important as Rosemary's career is concerned."

"You know that's not true. Erin ..." He reached out for her.

The commons room door opened and Kay emerged, followed by Rosemary. Caught by surprise, Nick moved clumsily, tripping over his own feet and presenting a perfect picture of an awkward swain.

Kay frowned disapprovingly; Rosemary broke into a broad grin. Nick stepped aside to let them ascend the stairs. As Rosemary passed him she muttered, "Carry on," and Nick turned red.

"I wish she wouldn't do that," he whispered, watching them disappear around the turn of the stairs.

"She was just kidding, " Erin said. She added pointedly, "But I wasn't. I shouldn't have blown up the way I did, Nick. But everything I said was true. Maybe you have cause to question my motives; but you've got to do something, you can't just sit back and—"

"Nick! Goddamn it, where is that kid? Nick!"

Joe's voice was only slightly softened by the closed door. Nick groaned. "Talk about being caught between a rock and a hard place. ..."

"Which am I?" Erin inquired sweetly.

"I refuse to answer on the usual grounds. Erin . . . Honey,
darling, sweetie pie—give me a break, okay? I trust you, esteem and honor you. . . . Hell, I think I love you. I swear—"

"Nick!"

"Damn it! Just give me a little time, Erin. We'll talk later, I promise. '

"Later" turned out
to be a stretch of three days. Nick spent a good deal of the time in Roanoke, "tactfully" helping to organize the gun-control rally. His brief visits to the house never coincided with Erin's free time.

No further incidents occurred, but Erin was always expecting something to happen and her nerves stretched tighter and tighter as the days passed. The smell of burning haunted her dreams. The smoke was actual and real; after the driest October in over twenty years, brush fires had broken out across the southeastern states. Weary fire fighters, their faces soot-blackened and drawn, appeared on the evening news broadcasts; weather forecasters reluctantly admitted there was no hope of rain in the immediate future. Police claimed that two of the largest blazes, one in western Virginia and one in South Carolina, were the result of arson. As far east as Baltimore and Washington the sun shone dimly through an overhanging haze of gray smoke.

"The fire won't come anywhere near here," Joe said, as they watched one such broadcast. "Just don't throw a lit cigarette away when you're walking in the woods."

Kay sniffed. "You're a fine one to talk. You and your cigars."

"Ah, but I don't walk in the woods," Joe said complacently.

"You don't walk anywhere," Kay snapped. "And you drink too much. You're a prime candidate for a heart attack, Joe."

Joe took the criticism good-humoredly. "At least I'm having a good time while I'm alive. Loosen up, Kay baby. There's no danger from those fires, they're miles away, and we may get rain by the end of the week."

Kay's hands moved restlessly, picking at the fabric of her skirt. Her favorite knitting bags were piled untidily on the bookshelves gathering dust. It was a pity she was unable to relieve the tension that stiffened her body and lined her face, Erin thought, reluctantly sympathetic. She suspected she knew why Kay was so sensitive to the mention of fire.

The only notable occurrence during Nick's absence was the change in Christie's attitude. She and Erin had been the only ones in the office Sunday afternoon; even Joe had taken time off to watch the Redskins play their longtime rivals from Dallas. His whoops of alternating triumph and rage, as the score fluctuated, could be heard even at a distance, and after one outburst Christie laughed and said, "That had to be an interception. You can almost tell what's happening on the field by the intensity of Joe's
yell."

Erin wasn't sure how to react. Christie had made tentative overtures before, and then slapped her down when she responded. She leaned back in her chair and flexed her stiff fingers. "You sound like a fan yourself," she said. "Why aren't you watching the big game?"

"Not me, kid. I hate football. My ex-significant other used to be glued to the damned TV all weekend every weekend. Like a nice feminine female, I kept him company, worked hard to learn about his hobby. . . . Why are women such fools?"

"It's hard to break early training, " Erin said. "Even if you were brought up by a liberated mother—which I certainly was not—you're barraged by messages from other sources. Movies, TV, aunts and friends. Be nice, be kind, don't hurt people's feelings, no matter what they do to yours. ..."

"He sure didn't do much for mine," Christie said sourly. "You should have seen me hauling beer and sandwiches at him and apologizing when there wasn't enough mayo on the bread. Apologizing when supper wasn't ready when he got home, apologizing for talking about my work instead of listening to him bitch about what a hard day he'd had. . . . I'm sorry, you don't want to hear this, it's so damned boring."

"If you feel like talking, I feel like listening. I think that's one area in which women have an edge over men; we can give each other support because we aren't ashamed to admit we make a mistake now and then."

Christie studied her expressionlessly for a moment. Then her lips parted in a flash of even white teeth.

"You a mind reader, or what?"

"Huh?"

"I was trying to work up to admitting I made a mistake with you. I took you for one of those sweet-faced ruffly-blouse-type females that was looking for a free meal ticket and a cushy job."

Erin winced. "I may have been heading in that direction." Then she added with a flash of temper, "But at least I didn't judge you, or anybody else, by some stupid stereotype."

Christies eyes narrowed. Before she could reply, Erin went on hotly, "Did you think I was after your job? Oh, I see that amuses you; the very idea of a nobody like me undermining your position—"

"It's been done. By people less qualified than you, to people better qualified than I."

"Yes, I suppose so. That wasn't what I had in mind when I came here, Christie; I'll be damned if I know what I did want. But I know now: not necessarily your job, but one like it. I won't sneak in by the back door, I'll earn it fair and square. So watch out. From now on I'll be snapping at your heels."

Leaning against the desk, arms folded, Christie studied her without expression. Then her lips parted and she let out a whoop of uninhibited laughter. "Girl, I sure did you wrong. Fair enough; from now on it's a fight to the finish, no holds barred, but no hitting below the belt. "

She held out a strong, slim hand and Erin grasped it. "We don't have to fight."

"Yeah, but we probably will. I'm competitive as hell, and apparently you are too. I'm all for a good honest fight now and then." She stretched, yawning, and Erin watched her lean grace with admiration not unmixed with envy.

"I think we're entitled to a break," Christie said. "I'm going for a run."

"Is that how you keep that gorgeous figure?"

Christie laughed, but looked pleased. "That's how I keep from going crazy in this madhouse. The conditions aren't ideal—there's no regular track, just a path through the woods—but it's sure relaxing. Do you run or jog or anything?"