Fair Game (18 page)

“What’s good?” Meg asked, her appetite fleeing before the onslaught of the visual stimulus.

“I’ve had the seafood Provencale, and I can recommend it.”

“Fine,” Meg said, closing her menu.

“And how about the
pate de foie gras
first?” he asked.

She nodded. She didn’t care.

Ransom gave their order to the waiter and then refilled Meg’s glass, saying, “I guess you haven’t been here before, have you?”

She shook her head. “A campaign is more about tuna sandwiches in hotel rooms than dinners in a place like this.”

“Then I’m glad I was able to provide you with a change of scene from all that.”

“I must admit it’s very restful to get away from it for an evening,” Meg said to him. “As soon as I left the hotel, I felt as if a weight had been lifted from my shoulders.”

“Is all the hype getting to you?”

“The frenetic pace is. I didn’t have such a key position during the last election, and so I’ve never experienced the fever from this perspective. Sometimes I don’t know how the Senator keeps on going. He just gets up every day and plunges back into the game.”
 

“He doesn’t miss many of his scheduled engagements, then?”

“No. He keeps on plugging even when he’s sick.”

“I guess he doesn’t want to disappoint anybody.”

“He rarely does.”

The waiter brought the appetizer and Ransom prepared it for Meg, spreading the pate on thin slices of baguette and adding purple onion and finely chopped egg. Her reaction was enthusiastic, and he kept her wineglass filled during the first course and the main dish as well, encouraging her to feel at ease.

By the end of the meal she wasn’t drunk, but she was relaxed.

“So what’s your itinerary for the next few weeks?” Ransom asked as the waiter cleared the plates and swept the table free of crumbs.

“Everywhere,” she replied. “Crisscrossing the state.”

“How do you keep track of where you’re going?”

“It isn’t easy. I have a separate disk just for the schedule of appearances.”

“So I’ll have to trail you all over like a camp follower?” he said, smiling.

“If you want to see me ”

“I want to see you,” Ransom replied quietly, holding her gaze.

The waiter placed a glass dish of almond chocolate mousse in front of each of them. He brought a chased silver pot of coffee and filled two thin china cups, setting a pitcher of cream and a bowl of sugar in the center of the table.

“Tomorrow it’s back to room service,” Meg said glumly, sipping her coffee.

“Another campaign sacrifice? I would think that the cuisine at some of the affairs you attend might be quite good.”

“Who gets to eat at those things? I run around the whole time and wind up having egg salad on rye back in my room.”

“Yet you wouldn’t trade your job for anyone’s.”

“That’s right.”

“You’re a complicated woman.”

“More than you know,” she replied mysteriously.

By the time Ransom had paid the check and called for the car, Meg was feeling the effects of wine, food, and a full day. She was openly yawning as Ransom drove back to the hotel, and hadn’t the energy to protest when he said he would walk her to the elevator.

He pushed the button and watched the light go on as the car descended to the first floor.

“Here we are,” he said as the doors slid open in front of them.

Meg turned to him. “Thank you. I had a lovely time.”

He lifted her chin with his forefinger and bent to kiss her lightly on the mouth. “Good night, Meg. I enjoyed myself too. I’ll call you in the morning.”

“Good night, Peter.” She stepped through the doors, and they shut behind her. She was exhausted. The prospect of getting undressed for bed was overwhelming, at the moment ranking right up there with cleaning the refrigerator and emptying the vacuum bag. She decided to compromise and sleep in her underwear. That monumental decision made, she leaned against the wall of the elevator with her eyes closed until it stopped at her floor.

Ransom walked back through the lobby, his mind racing.

* * * *

The next day, Capo sauntered into the lounge of the Senator’s suite where Martin was reading a newspaper, and said cheerfully, “Guess what? We’ve got the weekend off.”

Martin looked up at him questioningly.

“The Senator’s canceled his appointments for the next couple of days to spend the time ‘closeted with his advisers,’ according to the press release.”

“What does that mean?”

“Oh, I don’t know, there’s some kind of media crisis. I heard them talking. The Republicans dug up a bunch of new dirt and word leaked that they’re planning a negative ad campaign. Fair’s press people need this time to figure out how to counteract it, and they don’t want the Senator exposed to reporters until they can decide what to do. So he’s holing up here, and we’re not needed.”

“What about his daughter?”

“Are you ready for this? She’s slipping away for a romantic weekend with Dillon aboard the family yacht, no less. Our presence will not be required there either, so we’re sprung until Sunday night, when they’re having the charity auction at Penn’s Landing.”

While Martin should have been pleased at the prospect of the free time, the knowledge of how Ashley would be spending it dulled his reaction.

“When did they tell you this?” he asked.

“While you were downstairs. Good news, huh?”

Martin nodded thoughtfully.

“You could look a little happier about it,” Capo said.

“The fundraiser tonight is canceled too?”

“Yup. Everything. I already called Lorraine, and she says to come to dinner at eight o’clock. She’ll make the pot roast you like, and get that cheesecake too.”

“Sounds great. Thanks,” Martin replied absently.

“What’s the matter with you?” Capo asked him. “We’re out of here, old buddy, we’re on the lam until Sunday night. I’ll tell you something. The Senator may be the last, best hope this country has, like the TV spot says, but I’m not sorry that I won’t be looking at his face for a couple of days. And I’m sure he feels the same about me.”

Martin said nothing.

“But of course, the girl’s easier on the eyes,” Capo said, watching his friend’s face.

“The yacht’s already in?” Martin asked thoughtfully, ignoring the comment.

“Docked last night. Dillon and the girl are driving back to Philly this afternoon.” He frowned. “What do you care?”

“I just wondered.”

“Well, stop wondering. Until we get back she’s not your responsibility, so forget her.”

“When can we leave?”

“As soon as she does. She’s packing for the weekend in the other room right now.”

Martin got up and headed for the connecting door.

“Where are you going?” Capo demanded.

Martin didn’t answer, just kept walking, and Capo stood looking after him with a concerned expression on his face.

Ashley glanced up from loading her overnight bag

and saw Martin standing in the doorway of her bedroom.

“Hi “she said.

He nodded.

“I guess you heard about the change of plans.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sure you’re looking forward to the time off.”

He didn’t respond to that, but asked instead, “How come the auction is still on? Why didn’t you cancel that too?”

“The plans were too elaborate. The furniture and art works have already been shipped to the docks and stored in a warehouse there. Plus I think Roger Damico is pretty certain they’ll have something worked out by then.”

“Are you concerned about the ad campaign? Capo told me what’s going on.”

She sighed and pushed back a pale lock of hair. “These things always come up in politics. You have to be ready to deal with them at a moment’s notice. And we are. I wanted to stay and help Roger, but my father is insisting I take some time off. And to tell you the truth, I didn’t give him a big argument. I’m beat.”

“Does the problem have anything to do with that other family you told me about, the printing Finns?”

She smiled. “No, it’s a little worse than that, although having them surface right now would not exactly be helpful.” She closed the hasps on her case and straightened up. “When my father was in law school, he was accused of cheating on the moot-court competition. He was later exonerated and the whole thing was dropped. But the other side has gotten wind of it. They’re trying to make it look bad, like Dad really did cheat and my grandfather bought everybody off to keep it quiet, shove it under the rug.”

“How could they make it look like that?” Martin asked.

“My grandfather endowed a chair in international law at the school the same year.”

“What does that mean?”

“He gave the school the money to hire an expert in the field, pay his salary, buy the required books, et cetera.”

“I see. It seems like he came across with the goods to keep his kid in the school.”

“Right.”

Martin leaned back against the doorjamb and folded his arms. “What’s a moot-court competition?”

“It’s the trial by fire at the end of the first year of law school. You’re given a fictionalized case and you have to do the research, prepare the arguments, write the briefs, and represent your client before a panel of teachers, with one of them playing the role of the judge. It’s important to do well, because it’s the closest you come as a student to participating in the real thing.”

“Who accused your father of cheating?”

“I don’t know all the details, but apparently my dad was representing the defendant in the case and the student representing the plaintiff left his notes unattended in the library. My father was seen in the vicinity and was suspected of reading the notes and getting a jump on the opposition’s argument.”

“But wasn’t that the other kid’s fault for leaving his stuff around to be seen?”

“That was stupid, maybe, but not a violation of the honor code. Stealing his ideas would have been. But all the reference materials to be used in the case were gathered in that one area of the library, so my father had a valid reason for being there, and that’s why the whole thing eventually became so cloudy.”

“It sounds like a big deal over nothing to me.”

“That’s because you’ve never been to law school. The competition for grades is merciless. Some people will do anything to beat out another student by just a couple of points.”

“A great system,” Martin said dryly.

“It doesn’t exactly foster camaraderie,” Ashley admitted.

“Can your father’s opponent really make an issue out of something like that in the campaign? It happened, what, thirty years ago?”

“Would you want a cheat for your ?” Ashley countered. “All sorts of things go on behind closed doors, before elections and after, that the public doesn’t know about; deals are made, trade-offs sanctioned, payoffs given to the right people. But the image is everything. If a candidate won the Congressional Medal of Honor but also beats his wife, the voters will elect him on the medal, because they’ll know about that. His domestic situation will remain a secret, unless somebody from the other side finds out about it and uses it.”

Martin was silent. He knew she was right.

She moved to lift her case off the bed, and he stepped up behind her, taking it and saying, “I’ll carry this down for you.”

He followed her out into the sitting room, where she said to Capo, “Good-bye, Anthony. Have a nice weekend.”

“Bye,” Capo murmured, watching the two of them walk past him. Cozy duo, he couldn’t help noticing. He sighed heavily, shaking his head. Bound to be trouble there, he thought.

They went down in the elevator and Martin said to her, “So you’ll be glad to get away from this for a couple of days.”

She looked at him, studying his expression, and replied quietly, “A change is usually welcome.”

They emerged from the elevator and saw Dillon moving toward them across the lobby. He stopped in front of Ashley, kissed her, and said brusquely to Martin, “I’ll take that.”

Martin surrendered the case, feeling as if he were giving up the woman herself.

“Ready?” Dillon said to Ashley.

She nodded.

“Let’s go,” Dillon said.

Ashley took a step, looked over her shoulder at Martin, and said, “Good-bye, Tim. I’ll see you Sunday night.”

Martin watched them go, his expression bleak, and then went back upstairs to the suite.

* * * *

Ashley stared out the window of Dillon’s 528i, barely listening to his monologue on a case he was trying in district court.

Why did she feel that she had left with the wrong man?

“And so I filed for a continuance,” Dillon was saying, “but Judge Masters was in a bear of a mood. She wanted to know why I needed more time when we’d spent three weeks in discovery and the case was taking far too long already....” He looked over at her and realized that she was not listening.