Within Reach (3 page)

“Sure. But I guess she needs the break. From what she said on the phone, things have been rough. Every year there are younger faces. I think it’s getting her down.…My Lord, Blake, you’ve got six shirts there.” She had been watching him place them one by one, starched and cardboard-backed, in the suitcases, and couldn’t resist teasing him. “Are you sure that’s enough?”

“I’d rather have extras, just in case,” he answered in dead earnest, which Danica found to be all the more amusing, since Blake Lindsay never spilled, rarely sweated, barely wrinkled.

“Anyway—” she was smiling “—Reggie and I are having lunch on Saturday, unless you want to do something, in which case I’ll cancel.”

He had finished packing the shirts and was reaching for his suit bag. “No, no. Don’t do that. I’ll be at the club.”

It was either that or at work, so Danica had known she would be safe making the lunch date with Reggie. Until recently she had spent her own Saturdays waiting for him to come home. Perhaps in her old age she was wising up. Then again, perhaps not. More than once it had occurred to her that though she had convinced Blake to buy the house in Kennebunkport as a hideaway for the two of them, it was going to be something else getting him there. Last week was a perfect example. He had promised he would take the day off to drive up with her, then had been besieged by a handful of last-minute emergencies, that demanded his attention. She didn’t quite understand why a man who headed his own company couldn’t get subordinates to do the work.

“Is something wrong, Pook?” he asked gently.

Her head came up. “Hmmm?”

He sent her that same ephemeral flash of a smile as he threaded hangers through the slot at the top of the suit bag. “You look angry.”

She realized that she felt it, but the last thing she wanted was to sound like a shrewish wife, so she forced herself to relax and spoke with measured calm. “Nothing’s wrong. I was just thinking of Maine.”

“Any more word from the decorator?”

“She called yesterday afternoon to say that the cabinets are set to go in.” They had been special-ordered in a white oak that Danica had fallen in love with, but she had debated the decision for days, since using the white oak had sent a number of other dominoes toppling—namely countertops, ceiling fixtures and flooring, all of which were now in the process of being changed. But Blake had said to go ahead, so she had. “When I was there last week, the kitchen was barren.”

Blake laid the suit bag on the bed, straightened the lapel of the tuxedo he had put in last and drew up the zipper to close the bag.

Taking a breath, she forged cautiously on. “Once the cabinets are in, the refrigerator and stove will be hooked up. At least then we’ll be able to have something to eat or drink. I mean, the place won’t really be livable until May or June, but it’s getting there. I was hoping to go back up next month to check on things. You’ll come with me, won’t you?”

“If I can.”

“You haven’t been there since we first looked at it. I’d really like you to see what’s been done. If there’s anything you don’t like—”

He was doubling up the suit bag and fastening the straps. “You have wonderful taste.” His smile was on. “I’ll like it.”

“But I want you to
see
it, Blake. This was supposed to be a joint venture, a place where we could be alone together.”

Blake made a final scan of the room. “All in good time. When it’s finished, we’ll spend the time you want there. Things must be pretty primitive now. Did the decorator say anything about those kitchen cabinets you wanted?”

Danica opened her mouth in reproach, then shut it tight. He hadn’t been listening. That was all. His mind was on other things.

“Next week. They’ll be in next week,” she murmured, rising from the bed and heading for the door. “I’ll send Marcus up for the bags,” she called over her shoulder as she started down the stairs. But Blake was soon beside her, putting his hand lightly on her waist. It bobbed as they descended; their steps never quite matched.

“You won’t forget to RSVP to the Hagendorfs, will you?” he asked. Danica could almost see his mind’s eye going down the list headed Remind Danica. It came right after What to Pack and right before Names (and Wives’ Names) of Business Associates in Kansas City, which was where he was headed this week.

“I’ve already done it,” she said evenly. Patience was a virtue; so read the tag on her tea bag that morning.

“And the charity ball at the Institute?”

“They’re expecting us.”

“Good. You could give Feeno a call and see if my new tux is ready. If it is, have Marcus pick it up.” They rounded the second-floor landing and made their way toward the first. Blake dropped his hand from her waist. Danica slid hers along the lustrous mahogany banister. “Oh, and Bert Hammer mentioned something about your serving on the nominating committee.”

“For the Institute?”

“They need younger faces. Are you interested?”

“Sure. You know I love art.”

Blake chuckled, more the indulgent parent than the amused mate. “This would have very little to do with art, I’m afraid. It’d mean sitting at a table, tossing around names of the most popular and up-and-coming Bostonians. They know you’re in the social mainstream. They’d be picking your brain.”

Danica gave a small smile. “I don’t mind. It’s nice to feel useful. And besides, I know three women who would each give her right arm for an entree to the board; two of them would be fantastic.”

“Not the third?”

“Uh…Marion White?”

“Oh.” He cleared his throat and tried not to grin. “Yes, I think you’re right.” They’d reached the street floor, where Marcus Hannah stood waiting. “The bags are by the bed,” Blake instructed in a voice of quiet command. “I’ll be in the library when you’re ready.”

Marcus nodded and headed up the stairs while Blake disappeared, leaving Danica standing alone by the front door. She walked slowly back toward the library, but when she heard Blake talking on the phone, she reconsidered and took refuge in the den.

It hurt that he should be calling the office, which he’d left no more than ninety minutes before, when he might be talking with her. After all, he was going to be away for three days, and though she knew he would call her at least once or twice during that time, she also knew that he would call the office much more often. She wished she could say that he worked too hard, but he looked wonderfully healthy and seemed perfectly happy with his life. If he was busy, it was by choice. Perhaps that was what hurt most. He did choose.

At a sound in the hall she looked up to see Marcus, bags in hand, heading back through the lower pantry toward the courtyard where the car was parked. On cue Blake emerged from the library, set his briefcase on the floor by the closet and reached for his topcoat. By the time he retrieved the briefcase, Danica was by his side.

“Behave while I’m gone,” he said with a bright grin, then leaned forward and kissed her cheek. For an instant she was tempted to throw her arms around his neck and hold him there, but she knew she would be grasping at straws. Blake would no more be swayed by an emotional appeal than her father would have been. They were so alike, those two, so alike. Disturbed by the thought, she slid her hands into the pockets of her skirt and put on a smile. Her father would have approved.

“I’ll behave.” She followed Blake to the back door, watched him cross the cobblestone courtyard and climb into the Mercedes’s rear seat. It was a scenario that had grown all too familiar to her, as had the accompanying sadness. But the sadness had altered in nature over the years, she realized. It wasn’t so much Blake’s departure that affected her now, for she saw little enough of him when he was home. Rather, the sadness she felt was a more general one dealing with love and happiness and promise.

Blake looked up once to smile when Marcus backed the car around. She waved, but his head was already lowering. He was opening his briefcase, she knew. She suspected his mind was miles away by the time the car disappeared from her view.

“Ahhh, Mrs. Lindsay. Mrs. Marshall is already seated. If you’ll come this way…”

Breathless, Danica smiled. “Thank you, Jules.” She was a graceful figure breezing after the maître d’, her blond hair looking stunningly windblown, her calf-length silver-fox fur undulating gently as she let herself be led to the corner table the Ritz always held for her when she called.

“Mother!” She leaned down to press her cheek to the woman whose eyes lit up at her approach. “I’m sorry! Have I kept you waiting long?”

“Not more than a minute or two, darling. How are you? You look wonderful! Your cheeks are so pink.” Eleanor Marshall frowned at her only child. “You didn’t
walk
here, did you?”

“Sure. I cut through the Public Garden. It’d have been silly to drive, and besides, I love the fresh air.”

Eleanor eyed her daughter reprovingly. “Danica, Marcus is
paid
to drive you, silly or not. The Public Garden isn’t the safest place in the world.” She paused to place her order for a vermouth cassis to Danica’s kir.

“I’m all right, Mother. Here, safe and sound. And you look pretty fine yourself! New earrings?”

“They were a gift from the family we stayed with in Brazil last year. They’re topaz, a little too much for some occasions, but I thought you’d appreciate them.”

“I do. You wear them well.” Which was one thing Eleanor did do. Though far from being beautiful, she dressed to play up the best of her features. At fifty-two, she was a stylishly attractive woman, though she rarely turned heads unless she was with her husband. “Is it ethical for Daddy to accept gifts like that?”

“Your father says it is,” Eleanor answered with quiet assurance. “He usually knows.”

Danica wondered, but she said nothing. It wasn’t often her mother came in alone for lunch—it wasn’t often she
ever
had her mother to herself—and she didn’t want anything to mar their time together. Shuttling between Connecticut and Washington, not to mention flying off on numerous trips each year, her parents weren’t easily accessible.

“I’m so glad you called. This is a treat. Somehow talking on the phone just isn’t the same.” It never was, though she wondered if her mother agreed. “How’s Daddy? You said he was going to Vancouver?”

“He left yesterday morning, just before I called you. It was a last-minute trip; he’s filling in for a committee member who took sick. He sends his love, by the way. I told him I was seeing you when he called last night.”

“Didn’t you want to go with him?”

“I felt—” Eleanor took a breath and let it out with a sheepish grin “—like staying home. It must be the years creeping up. When your father’s away, things are quieter. I find I need that from time to time.”

Strange, Danica thought, how her mother enjoyed that quiet, while she found it terrifying. It wasn’t that she craved her parents’ political whirl of a life; that was the
last
thing she wanted, and besides, she was busy enough socially. No, what she wanted…what she wanted was the noise of a happy home. What frightened her was the thought of a lifetime filled with the silence that too often entombed the Beacon Hill town house she shared with Blake.

She refocused her thoughts on her mother with a hint of concern and good cause. “You’re feeling all right, aren’t you?”

“Oh, yes. Fine. The doctors’ reports are wonderful.” Four years earlier Eleanor had had a hysterectomy when a uterine tumor had been detected. Between the surgery and subsequent radiation treatments, it appeared she was cured. “It’s just that I get tired of living out of a suitcase. And since your father’s going to be at meetings most of the time…”

Danica thought of Blake and wondered how her mother managed to avoid the frustration she felt. It was difficult when a man’s work was his mistress, as Blake’s seemed to be. “Daddy doesn’t mind the meetings, does he?”

“What do
you
think?” Eleanor smiled. “He thrives on it. In fact, he’s that much more relaxed. He doesn’t have to run for another four years.” William Marshall was the senior senator from Connecticut, a twenty-one-year veteran of the United States Congress. “He’s as active as ever, but the pressure isn’t as intense. When he’s up for reelection himself, it’s a matter of life or death.”

She spoke matter-of-factly and Danica understood, knowing that to her father winning
was
a matter of life and death. What she didn’t understand was how her mother could stand it, but Eleanor seemed fully acclimated to that way of thinking.

Not so Danica. More than once over the years she had wanted to rebel. First she hadn’t had the courage; later she’d seen the futility of it. It would have been a losing battle, and very simply, she couldn’t afford another loss. More than anything, she wanted her father’s approval, and to win that, she had to follow his rules.

“Campaigning for someone else,” Eleanor continued, oblivious to Danica’s thoughts, “well, it’s easier. By the way, he’s come out for Claveling. You know that, don’t you?”

Danica knew that her father had been torn between two men, both announced candidates for his party’s presidential nomination. With the first of the primaries over, it appeared that Claveling was the one more likely to succeed. “So I read. It’s been all over the papers.”

Eleanor made a sound that Danica might have called a snort if it had been anyone else making it in any other place. But her mother was impeccably controlled, and the Ritz was exquisitely proper. Therefore there had been no snort. It had been a nasal moan, Danica decided, and reflected the same tempered displeasure that Eleanor proceeded to express.

“Don’t mention the papers to me.”

“Has something happened?”

“Oh, just a small article in the local paper criticizing your father for a speech he gave last week. It didn’t bother him, but
I
got annoyed. The newspapers are always looking for something to attack. If they can’t cry income tax evasion or conflict of interest, they pick on petty little things. The powerful are always targets. If the powerful are well-to-do, so much the worse. You should remember that, Danica.”