Stillwatch (3 page)

Authors: Mary Higgins Clark

Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Anthologies (Multiple Authors)

BOOK: Stillwatch

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Relations Committee; the Budget Committee; first woman to beAssistant Majority Leader. Isn’t it a fact that Congress is still in sessionbecause the President is counting on her to get the budget throughthe way he wants it?”“Yes, it’s true—and what’s more, she’ll do it.”“What do
you
think of her?”Sam shrugged. “She’s good. She’s damn good, as a matter of fact.But she’s stepped on a lot of important toes, Pat. When Abigail getsupset, she doesn’t care who she blasts, and where and how she does it.”“I assume that’s also true of the majority of the men on the Hill.”“Probably.”“Exactly.”The waiter came with menus. They ordered, deciding to share aCaesar salad. And that was another memory. That last day togetherPat had made a picnic lunch and asked Sam what salad she shouldbring. “Caesar,” he’d said promptly, “and lots of anchovies, please.”“How can you eat those things?” she’d demanded. “How can younot? It’s an acquired taste, but once you have it, you’ll never lose it.”She’d tried them that day and decided they were good.He remembered too. As they handed back the menus, hecommented, “I’m glad you didn’t give up on the anchovies.” Hesmiled. “Getting back to Abigail, I’m amazed she agreed to go alongwith the documentary.”“Frankly, I’m still amazed myself. I wrote to her about three monthsago. I’d done a lot of research on her and was absolutely fascinated bywhat I uncovered. Sam, how much do you know about her background?”“She’s from Virginia. She took her husband’s seat in Congresswhen he died. She’s a workaholic.”“Exactly. That’s the way everyone sees her. The truth is that AbigailJennings comes from Upstate New York,
not
Virginia. She won theMiss New York State beauty contest but refused to go to AtlanticCity for the Miss America pageant because she had a scholarship toRadcliffe and didn’t want to risk wasting a year. She was only thirty-one when she was widowed. She was so in love with her husbandthat twenty-five years later she still hasn’t remarried.”

“She hasn’t remarried, but she hasn’t lived in a cloister either.”“I wouldn’t know about that, but judging from the information I’vegathered, the vast majority of her days and nights are strictly work.”“That’s true.”“Anyhow, in my letter I wrote that I’d like to do a program thatwould give viewers the feeling of knowing her on a personal level. Ioutlined what I had in mind and got back about the frostiest rejectionI’ve ever read. Then a couple of weeks ago Luther Pelham phoned.He was coming to Boston specifically to take me to lunch and wantedto talk about my coming to work for him. Over lunch he told me theSenator had showed him my letter; he’d already been mulling overthe idea of a series called
Women in Government.
He knew and likedmy work and felt I was right for the job. He also said that he wantedto make me a regular part of his seven-o’clock news program.“You can imagine how I felt. Pelham is probably the most importantcommentator in the business; the network is as big as Turner ’s; themoney’s terrific. I’m to kick off the series with a documentary onSenator Jennings and he wants it as fast as possible. But I still don’tknow why the Senator changed her mind.”“I can tell you why. The Vice President may be on the verge ofresigning. He’s much sicker than people realize.”Pat laid down her fork and stared at him. “Sam, do you mean . . .?”“I mean the President has less than two years left in his secondterm. How better to make every woman in the country happy than byappointing the first woman Vice President?”“But that means . . . if Senator Jennings is Vice President, theyalmost couldn’t deny her the nomination for President next time.”“Hold on, Pat. You’re going too fast. All I’ve said is that
if
theVice President resigns, there’s a damn good chance he’ll be replacedby either Abigail Jennings or Claire Lawrence. Claire is practicallythe Erma Bombeck of the Senate—very popular, very witty, a first-rate legislator. She’d do an excellent job. But Abigail’s been therelonger. The President and Claire are both from the Midwest, andpolitically that isn’t good. He’d rather appoint Abigail, but he can’tignore the fact that Abigail really isn’t well known nationally. Andshe’s made some powerful enemies in Congress.”

“Then you believe Luther Pelham wants the documentary to letpeople see Abigail in a warmer, more personal way?”“From what you’ve just told me, that’s my guess. I think he wantsto generate popular support for her. They were pretty cozy for a longtime, and I’m sure he’d like to have his dear friend in the VicePresident’s chair.”They ate silently as Pat mulled the implications of what Sam hadtold her. Of course it explained the sudden job offer, the need for haste.“Hey, remember me?” Sam finally said. “You haven’t asked mewhat
I’ve
been doing these past two years.”“I’ve been following your career,” she told him. “I toasted youwhen you were reelected—not that I was surprised. I wrote and toreup a dozen notes to you when Janice died. I’m supposed to have away with words, but nothing sounded right. . . . It must have beenvery bad for you.”“It was. When it was obvious Janice didn’t have much time, I cutmy schedule to the bone and spent every possible minute with her. Ithink it helped.”“I’m sure it did.” She had to ask: “Sam, why did you wait so longto call me? In fact, would you ever have called me if I hadn’t come toWashington?”The background sounds of the other diners’ voices and the faintclinking of glasses, the tempting aromas of the food, the paneledwalls and frosted-glass partitions of the attractive room faded as shewaited for his answer.“I did call you,” he said, “a number of times, but I had the guts tobreak the connection before your phone rang. Pat, when I met you,you were about to become engaged. I spoiled that for you.”“With or without you it wouldn’t have happened. Rob is a niceguy, but that’s not enough.”“He’s a bright young lawyer with an excellent future. You’d bemarried to him now if it weren’t for me. Pat, I’m forty-eight yearsold. You’re twenty-seven. I’m going to be a grandfather in threemonths. You know you would want to have children, and I simplydon’t have the energy to raise a new family.”“I see. Can I ask you something, Sam?”

“Of course.”“Do you love me, or have you talked yourself out of that too?”“I love you enough to give you a chance to meet someone yourown age again.”“And have you met someone
your
own age yet?”“I’m not seeing anyone specifically.”“I see.” She managed a smile. “Well, now that we have everythingout in the open, why don’t you buy me that nice gooey dessert I’msupposed to crave?”He looked relieved. Had he expected her to badger him? shewondered. He seemed so tired. Where was all the enthusiasm he’dhad a few years ago?An hour later when he was dropping her at home, Pat rememberedwhat she’d been meaning to discuss. “Sam, I had a crazy phone callat the office last week.” She told him about it. “Do people in Congressget much hate mail or calls?”He didn’t seem especially concerned. “Not that many, and noneof us takes them very seriously.” He kissed her cheek and chuckled.“I was just thinking. Maybe I’d better talk to Claire Lawrence andsee if she’s been trying to scare off Abigail.”Pat watched him drive away, then closed and latched the door.The house reinforced her feeling of emptiness. The furniture willmake a difference, she promised herself.Something on the floor caught her eye: a plain white envelope. Itmust have been slipped under the door while she was out. Her namewas printed in heavy black lettering that was sharply slanted fromleft to right. Probably someone from the realtor ’s office, she tried totell herself. But the usual business name and address were missingfrom the upper left-hand corner, and the envelope was of the cheapestdime-store sort.Slowly she ripped it open and pulled out the single sheet of paper.It read: “I TOLD YOU NOT TO COME.”

The next morning the alarm went off at six. Pat slipped willingly outof bed. The lumpy mattress had not been conducive to sleep, and shehad kept waking, aware of the creaking, settling sounds in the houseand the thumping activity of the oil burner as it snapped off and on.Try as she would, she could not dismiss the note as the work of aharmless eccentric. Somebody was observing her.The movers had promised to arrive by eight. She planned to movethe files stored in the basement up to the library.The basement was dingy, with cement walls and floor. Gardenfurniture was stacked neatly in the center. The storage room was tothe right of the furnace room. A heavy padlock on its door was grimywith the accumulated soot of years.When Charles had given her the key, he’d warned, “I don’t knowexactly what you’ll find, Pat. Your grandmother instructed Dean’soffice to send all his personal effects to the house. We never did getaround to sorting them.”For a moment it seemed as though the key would not work. Thebasement was damp, with a vague smell of mildew. She wondered ifthe lock had rusted. She moved the key back and forth slowly andthen felt it turn. She tugged at the door.Inside the storeroom, a stronger smell of mildew assailed her. Twolegal-size filing cabinets were so covered with dust and cobwebs shecould barely determine their color. Several heavy cartons, haphazardlypiled, stood next to them. With her thumb she rubbed at the grimeuntil the labels appeared: CONGRESSMAN DEAN W. ADAMS,BOOKS. CONGRESSMAN DEAN W. ADAMS, PERSONALEFFECTS. CONGRESSMAN DEAN W. ADAMS,MEMORABILIA.The inserts on the file drawers read the same:CONGRESSMAN DEAN W. ADAMS, PERSONAL.“Congressman Dean W. Adams,” Pat said aloud.

She repeated the name carefully. Funny, she thought, I really don’tthink of him as a Congressman. I only place him here in this house.What kind of Representative was he?Except for the formal picture the newspapers used at the time ofthe deaths, she’d never seen even a snapshot of him. Veronica hadshown her albums filled with pictures of Renée as a child, as a youngwoman at her debut, at her first professional concert, with Pat in herarms. It hadn’t been hard to guess why Veronica had kept no reminderof Dean Adams around.The key to the files was on the ring Charles had given her. Shewas about to unlock the first one when she began to sneeze. Shedecided it was crazy to try to examine anything in that cellar. Alreadyher eyes were itching from the dust. I’ll wait until it’s all in the library,she thought. But first she would wash the outside of the cabinets andget the worst of the dust off the cartons.It turned out to be a messy, exhausting job. There was no sink inthe basement, and she trudged repeatedly upstairs to the kitchen,bringing down a pail of sudsy hot water and returning a few minuteslater with both water and sponge blackened.On the last trip she brought down a knife and carefully scrapedthe identifying labels from the cartons. Finally she removed the insertsfrom the fronts of the file drawers. Satisfied, she surveyed her work.The cabinets were olive green and still in decent condition. Theywould fit along the east wall of the library. The cartons could gothere too. No one would have any reason to think they hadn’t comefrom Boston. Veronica’s influence again, she thought wryly. “Don’ttell anyone, Pat. Think ahead, Pat. When you marry, do you wantyour children to know that the reason you limp was that your fathertried to kill you?”She had barely time to wash her hands and face before the moversarrived. The three men on the truck hauled in the furniture, unrolledcarpets, unpacked china and crystal, brought up the contents of the storageroom. By noon they had gone, manifestly pleased with their tip.Alone again, Pat went directly to the living room. Thetransformation was dramatic. The fourteen-by-twenty-four-footOriental carpet with its brilliant designs of apricot, green, lemon andcranberry against a black background dominated the room. The greenvelvet love seat stood against the short wall at a right angle to the

long apricot satin sofa. The matching high-backed wing chairs flankedthe fireplace; the Bombay chest was to the left of the patio doors.The room was well nigh a restoration of its former self. She walkedthrough it, touching the tops of the tables, adjusting the angle of achair or lamp, running her hands over the fabric of the upholsteredpieces. What was she feeling? She couldn’t be sure. Not fear exactly—though she had to force herself to pass the fireplace. What then?Nostalgia? But for what? Was it possible that some of those blurredimpressions were memories of happy times spent in this room? If so,what else could she do to retrieve them?

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