Smoke and Mirrors (8 page)

"Argue with people like that boy. His mind, what there is of it, is made up. You're supposed to go where the ducks are, aren't
you?"

Nick stopped, and in full view of all the spectators, under the glaring lights, seized her in a fervent embrace. "You're awfully cute," he said.

Up to that point Erin had found his exuberance entertaining. Why the compliment roused such sudden, violent annoyance she could not have said; a few weeks ago she would have accepted it with a modest simper. Instead she jabbed her elbow into Nick's midsection and snapped, "Don't patronize me!"

"I didn't. I wouldn't! If you want to tell me I'm the sexiest man you've ever met, go right ahead; I won't take offense. '

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah. I said you were cute and you are cute, by God. I didn't say, and didn't mean, that you were not also intelligent, capable, worthy of respect—"

"You implied as much. That's what 'cute' means to men like you. Cute and dumb."

"Not true." Infuriatingly Nick's lips curved into a smile. "Hey, have you been reading Rosemary's speeches?"

"I can take offense at rudeness without help from Rosemary."

"Sure you can," Nick said. "But listen, you ought to read the one she gave a couple of years ago when she spoke in support of her day-care bill. I'll get you a copy. Though it loses something in the mere reading; Rosemary's a great speaker, and she's improving all the time. Even television doesn't capture her quality completely. Tell you what, next time she gives a major speech maybe you'd like

It was difficult to quarrel with a man who blandly ignored your complaints and launched into a lecture. Erin let him escort her to her seat in the bleachers.

As soon as the second half started he was off again, after presenting her with a piece of apple pie. The pie lived up to his praise, but the paper plate on which it reposed wasn't very sturdy, and the gyrations of the quarterback's adoring dad sent trickles of sticky amber juice cascading onto Erin's skirt.
Philosophically lick
ing her fingers, she was seized by a fit of the giggles, as she remembered Fran's envious comments.
"Politics is the most glamorous business in the world. Mixing with the rich and famous— gorgeous clothes, beautiful people, caviar and champagne ..." Caviar and champagne . . . Well, there was something to be said for limp chef's salad and homemade apple pie too. It all depends on the ambience, and the company.

By the following
morning her opinion of Nick had undergone another switch, back to the negative side. He had accepted her invitation to come in for a cup of coffee and had stayed till 2
a.m.
arguing politics with Fran. She would like to have believed he had lingered in the hope that Fran would go tactfully to bed and leave them alone, but she had already learned enough about Nick to recognize the hope was delusory. Nick would rather argue than eat, or sleep, or ... anything else.

She could cheerfully have murdered Fran, who had committed the unforgivable sin of being bright-eyed, alert, and witty while she sat like a lump of suet. She couldn't have gotten a word in even if she had had anything intelligent to contribute; Fran and Nick were a perfect match in loquacity and detailed knowledge of political issues. They agreed on practically everything, including the dazzling wonderfulness of Rosemary Marshall. And after Nick had left—remarking calmly that he still had a story to write—Fran had raved on and on about him. "Talk about your fringe benefits! Of course, if you're really crazy about the guy I wouldn't dream of horning in, but after all, you just met him. ..."

The unspoken assumption being that if Fran wanted him, she could get him.

Erin pushed the stack of mail aside and stood up, avoiding the eagle eye of Mrs. Patterson, the office manager. Patterson was a soured virgin of ninety-seven (Nick's description) who clearly believed Erin was badly hung over after a night of sinful dissipation. To hell with Patterson; she needed coffee.

The coffee urn and accompanying amenities—which included a soft-drink machine and an unpredictable selection of doughnuts and pastries—were concealed behind a screen at the back of the
room. Erin filled a cup and stood by the table as she sipped; she was in no hurry to return to her desk where she would be overlooked by Mrs. Patterson's critical eye. All at once she heard her own name, uttered in tones that rose distinctly over the usual background noises.

"Erin! Where the hell has she gotten to?"

Erin made haste to present herself. There was no mistaking Joe's bass roar.

"I was just getting a cup of coffee," she began.

Joe slung his coat jacket over one shoulder and wrenched at his tie. His face looked as if he had shaved in the dark or a thick fog; patches of unattended bristles marked his jutting chin. "Bring it to my office, I want to talk to you. Get me a cup too. Cream and sugar." Without waiting for an answer he swung on his heel and stamped toward his office.

Erin's hands were unsteady as she filled the cup according to his specifications. The milk looked a little peculiar; she hoped it hadn't gone sour, Joe was obviously in a foul mood already. Had she done something to anger him, or committed some ghastly blunder with the mail? In spite of Joe's kindness to her she was a little afraid of him; she had seen him reduce one of the typists to tears for committing a minor error.

The office door stood open. Joe was speaking on the phone, and Jeff stood by the desk. Joe gestured to Erin to close the door; while she was trying to work out the logistics of obeying his order while holding a Styrofoam cup in either hand, Jeff came to her assistance. She thanked him, and murmured an apology. "I didn't know you were here. Would you like some coffee?"

"No, thanks. Haven't you heard that fetching coffee for the boss is a feminist issue?"

The edge in his voice surprised Erin and increased her nervousness. She racked her brain trying to remember whether she had said something to Nick that might have sounded critical of Rosemary, the issues, the world in general. . . .

Joe slammed the telephone into the cradle. "We're transferring you to home base," he said. "Kay managed to mash her hand last night—the right hand, of course—she can't type, or tie Rosie's
hair ribbons, or whatever the hell else she does. Better get out there as fast as you can; Kay's in one of her states. "

Erin felt as if the hinges on her jaw had given way. "I don't understand," she gasped.

"What don't you understand? English?"

"You mean . . . Do you want me to go to Middleburg?"

"For Christ's sake!" Joe bellowed.

"Cool it, Joe. " Jeff smiled encouragingly at Erin. "Give her a chance to assimilate it. "

"So what's to assimilate? Most people would consider this the biggest break of their lives."

"No doubt she is speechless with joy," Jeff said sarcastically. "People like to be asked, Joe. Asked, not told."

The expression on Joe's face as he considered this astonishing idea was almost comical. "That's not it," Erin said quickly. "Of course I'll go. I just wondered why—"

"I told you, Kay's crippled herself. Caught her hand in the car door, for God's sake. Broke a couple of fingers. Do you want to go, or don't you?"

"Of course. I'll leave right away. Should I tell Mrs. Patterson, or—"

She stopped; Joe's face was crimson, and he looked as if he were about to explode with exasperation. Initiative, Erin told herself; display a little initiative, woman. When a man like Joe gave an order, he expected the orderee to work out the details. Such as how she was going to get to Middleburg without a car.

"Yes, sir," she snapped. "Right away, sir."

She didn't hear Jeff follow; he walked like a leopard. But his hand reached the knob before hers, and after he had ushered her out he said in a low voice, "Don't mind Joe, he's in a bad mood. Things are a little tense all around."

"He talks as if the poor woman broke her hand on purpose," Erin muttered.

"Things are a little tense," Jeff repeated. "I'll explain to Mrs. Patterson. You'd better go home first and pack a bag in case they want you to stay overnight. "

"Thanks," Erin said gratefully. His quiet, calm manner was as
helpful as the practical suggestions Joe hadn't bothered to offer. "Is there ... I suppose there's a bus?"

"To Middleburg?" His elegantly shaped eyebrows shot up. "Oh, that's right, I remember you said you didn't own a car. No problem. I'll drive you. I have to go out there anyway. Why don't you go home and pack, and I'll pick you up in ... say an hour and
a half?"

The office was in Falls Church, only twenty minutes away from the apartment, but by the time she had waited for the bus and walked the distance on either end, she had very little time to spare. She made it, just barely, running breathlessly out the door only seconds before Jeff arrived. He acknowledged her promptness with an approving smile, and got out to take her overnight bag and stow it in the backseat. The contrast between his immaculately, tended though modest Camaro, and the wreck Nick drove was ludicrous. The backseat of Nick's car looked like a traveling office, heaped with boxes of campaign literature, newspapers, and miscellaneous debris. Jeff's contained only his briefcase. Even the car keys reflected the personality of their owners. Nick's chain held over a dozen keys, held together by twists of plastic ties; Jeff's key ring was a polished curve of heavy silver in the form of a stylized fish.

"That's good-looking," Erin said, indicating the ornament.

"Thanks." Jeff wasn't the man to waste time on meaningless courtesies, especially when, as seemed apparent from his frowning look, he was preoccupied with more important matters. Erin waited until the lines on his forehead had smoothed out before she ventured to speak again.

"Can I ask a question?"

"Sure. Sorry if I sounded a little brusque. I was thinking about a sentence in a speech I'm working on for Rosemary."

"I thought Nick was the official speechwriter."

"There is no official speechwriter," Jeff snapped. He gave her a rueful sidelong smile. "There I go again. Sometimes the way this campaign is being run gets to me. We all have official titles, but they don't mean anything, except in Joe's case—and a campaign manager is supposed to be a jack-of-all-trades, in charge of everything. Not that political campaigns are ever models of organization;
I've heard the process described as lurching from one crisis to the next. But this one ..."

He shook his head. "As for the speechwriting, we all take a shot at it. Rosemary reworks ever word herself, but she's very good about listening to other ideas. So feel free, if the urge strikes you, to become the next Schlesinger."

"I wouldn't dare."

"Why not? Erlichman began as a baggage handler for Nixon's 1960 campaign—though that may not be a career you'd care to emulate. And I know of one political writer who was writing speeches for Robert Kennedy two days after he began work as a junior-grade assistant. But you wanted to ask me something. What was it?"

"You've already answered it," Erin said. "I was going to ask whether things were always this frantic."

Jeff seemed quite at ease, now that he had let off a little steam. "Actually, they get worse, ' he said, smiling. "The closer we get to election day, the more frantic the pace. A lot of people who go into that voting booth make up their minds, or change them, at the last minute. The polls are increasingly accurate in predicting the outcome—some would say they affect the outcome—but there are always the famous exceptions. Something can happen at the last minute to change the whole picture."

"Like Rosemary's secretary breaking her hand?"

"Oh, that. A minor contretemps. Kay doesn't like to admit it, but she can be replaced."

"But why by me?"

"That's the question I thought you were going to ask," Jeff said. He was silent for a moment. It was not a pause of uncertainty, but of someone coolly considering all the pros and cons before issuing a statement. Then he said, "I don't ordinarily gossip about people, but you're being tossed into the thick of this situation, so you have a right to know some of the problems you'll be facing. Kay is Rosemarys secretary. Period. She's had the job for years, and by all accounts she has handled it well. Lately, though, she's aspired to giddier heights—aide, executive assistant. And that job she cannot handle."

"Why not?"

"It's hard to explain. And," Jeff added, in a burst of unexpected candor, "it makes me feel like a petty-minded lout to criticize Kay; I'm fond of her, and she's always been nice to me. But she just doesn't have it. The imagination, the political savvy, the subtlety

Oh, hell, I have to say it—the brains. She can't accept that, of course. But it makes things very awkward, especially when Kay tries to usurp the functions of the office she doesn't hold. She's always sniping at Joe, which doesn't improve his inequable temper. If Rosemary weren't such a sentimental sucker she'd retire Kay and give the job to someone younger and more flexible."

"Kay seemed perfectly competent the day I met her," Erin said. What she didn't say, because it was not her place to do so, was that Kay had been a little too competent, too quick to assume authority. She hadn't even asked the right questions.

"She's not senile," Jeff said. "I didn't mean to imply that. But she's slowing down; it's become more apparent even in the past few days. Being personal secretary to a person like Rosemary involves more than typing and filing. You have to be tactful, quick to react in a crisis, a generally soothing influence. Kay's performance this morning, when she realized she was temporarily out of commission, was indicative. She carried on like a maniac; Rosemary had to soothe her, instead of the other way around. She wouldn't shut up until Joe agreed to send you out to the house."

"Then this was Kay's idea?"

"I guess so, " Jeff said disinterestedly. "But it was okay with Rosemary; she said something about keeping it in the family. As I said, she's a sucker for sentimental relationships. If I were you, I'd be careful not to complain about Kay to Rosemary, no matter what dumb thing she does. Rosemary isn't stupid, she won't blame you for goofing if it isn't your fault, but she'll like you better if you take the 'full-responsibility' route. "

"Thanks," Erin said gloomily. "I don't get it, though. Why would Kay want me, of all people?"

"Oh, that's obvious, I should think. She doesn't consider you a threat. Some of the other secretaries could replace her. You— forgive me—you couldn't. Not with your lack of experience. Don't get any grand ideas about your job, you're just another pair of hands—Kay's hands—doing exactly what she tells you to do."

IF
Erin had
entertained any remaining illusions about her promotion, they would have been stripped away by the manner in which Kay received her. She and Jeff had barely gotten out of the car when Kay rushed out of the house and down the porch steps. She stumbled on the steps; Jeff, who had apparently feared just such an accident, dropped Erin's bag and leapt forward to catch the older woman.

"What're you trying to do, break a leg to match your hand?" he asked, setting her back on her feet.

Kay looked ten years older than she had the previous Saturday. Her hair had been bundled into an untidy wad at the back of her head, her face was sunken, and her eyes looked odd and unfocused. Her right arm had been strapped to her body, probably to keep her from waving it in agitated gestures.

"What took you so long? The work is piling up. I can't even ..." She brushed a lock of straggling hair from her face and then pressed her hand to her forehead. "Those darned pills are too strong, I feel funny. I didn't want to take them, but Rosemary insisted."

"Well, of course you have to take them," Jeff said easily. "If you'd let me drive you to the hospital last night, after it happened, instead of waiting till this morning—"

"I thought it was only bruised." Kay's lips turned down like those of a sulky child. "Don't just stand there, Jeff, Rosemary wants to see you right away. You're late. "

"We came as fast as we could. I suggested Erin pack a suitcase."