Forbidden Son (16 page)

Chapter
Twenty-Five

Washington,
D.C.

1980

Honey
Belle lurched up from the bed, her heart racing from the images of the
nightmare echoing in her mind. Although the temperature inside the hotel room
was comfortable, she was coated in sweat. Her nightgown clung to her like an
extra layer of skin.

She
swallowed, trying to bring her rational mind into focus. But her dream had been
so vivid, the leering face of Judge Hartwell so clear as he’d shown her picture
after picture of herself reaching for an empty cradle. Her skin felt pricked by
shards of glass, and anxiety pierced her heart. Perhaps it was the Judge’s
image, jabbing a finger in the air, and his voice, mean and low, that awakened
her.
No bastard babies to taint the Hartwell bloodlines. Forbidden...hear
me...forbidden!

With
her heart in her throat, she kicked off the sheet. She turned and was on the
edge of the bed. She scooted back to keep from falling off. It took her a full
minute to collect her wits, to remember she was in a hotel room in Washington,
D.C. and today was Monday—the day she intended to seek an appointment with
Senator Tripp Hartwell. The day she had dreaded for seventeen years.

She
stumbled to the bathroom and bathed her face in cold water. But afterward she
stopped to stare out at the morning, memories of walks on the beach with Tripp
bringing tears to her eyes... Honey Belle drew in a deep breath. This time she
didn’t feel the sting of tears. She was done crying.

She
remembered waking up weeks ago, when her son had proudly shown her the letter
stating he’d been selected by Georgia’s state representative to serve as a page
to Congress. That one letter had brought back to the forefront of her mind the
mistake of falling in love with a rich and powerful man’s son. That one letter
had unraveled her world.

****

Honey
Belle glanced out the window of the yellow cab. The view of the city did
nothing to lift her spirits. The driver hit the brakes at a traffic light,
lurching her forward.

The
traffic light turned green, and the cab moved again toward the Hart Senate
Building. The cabbie maneuvered close to the curb, and she paid the fare.
Midmorning heat was rising from the sidewalks in shimmering waves. Perspiration
beading on her upper lip, she stood for a moment admiring the nine-story
structure before pushing through the senate building’s glass doors and stepping
into the atrium. There was no need to check the information board for Senator
Hartwell’s office number. A simple phone call had given her that information.
She stepped into the elevator and pushed the second floor button. There didn’t
seem to be enough room in the elevator’s car to breathe. No matter what, she
swore she wouldn’t give an inch. Not when it came to protecting her son.

She
second-guessed her decision to confront Tripp. There were two senators for each
of the fifty states. With that many politicians and their staff, plus the house
representatives, sixteen-year-old Jack Tripp Garrett would simply be another
young page, and certainly not one significant enough to warrant the attention
of a popular senator from South Carolina. If anyone questioned Jack’s middle
name, it could be construed as a coincidence. After all, Tripp was a common
name in the South, wasn’t it? Perhaps she should turn around, go back to the
hotel, and stay there. She would wait for Jack’s nightly telephone call, tell
him how much she loved him, to enjoy his summer in D.C., and that she was
flying home on the next flight to Atlanta. Yes, that seemed like a good plan.
No one would be the wiser about Jack’s parentage. She had always allowed her
son to believe his father had died in the war, had brushed off details when
he’d come home from school filled with questions as to why he didn’t have a
daddy to play fly ball with him or to take him fishing and camping. She feared,
if the truth came out that Jack was illegitimate, he would hate her. Hate her
for not telling him who his father was. How could she tell him why she’d kept
his birth a secret without condemning herself?

Her
pep talk had helped. She’d made her decision, until the elevator doors opened
and the little voice in her head chided, “Coward...coward.” She’d heard it
before, that hateful little reminder. “Okay, so I’m not the most courageous
person in the world. Give me a break.”

An
impeccably dressed man holding a briefcase said, “I beg your pardon, miss?”

She
winced at the fact she’d spoken aloud. “Bad habit...” She gave an eloquent
shrug. “Talking to myself.” She swallowed more emotions than she could explain.

In
a split second before the elevator doors closed, she called out, “Senator
Hartwell’s office?”

The
man hurried his answer. “Down the hall. Last door on the left.”

There
was no time to thank him.

She
was more nervous than she’d thought she would be, and found herself mentally
rehearsing exactly what she wanted to say. This sort of rote memorization had
served her well during college and graduate school.

She
took a moment to stare down the long hall and felt as if she were walking to
her doom. Tucking a wayward strand of hair behind her ear, she sucked in a
steadying breath. What would she say to him after all these years?
Hello,
Senator Hartwell, remember me?

No,
that wouldn’t do. She tried again.
Hi, Tripp, I was in town, and thought for
old times’ sake—

She
quickly dismissed that one.

The
more she walked, the longer the hall seemed to be. She could hear her breath,
felt the pressure of the carpet under her high heels, until she reached the
last door on the left.

She
took a step toward the closed door, placed her hand on the doorknob, and
hesitated. What if he didn’t remember her? What if he did remember her? Which
was worse? Both, she decided.

Outside
the building the air had been stifling, but inside it was air conditioned, so why
was she perspiring? She stood frozen in place.

A
man’s voice said, “Excuse me, miss, I have an appointment with the senator. Do
you mind?”

She
hesitated for the barest second. “Oh, certainly, I was just going in.”

She
turned the knob and swung the door open, stepping inside ahead of the man. The
office had an air of formality. Behind a dark cherrywood desk sat a woman in
her mid-fifties. Honey Belle guessed she was Tripp’s secretary or—what did they
call them these days? Ah, yes, administrative assistant. A further glance
around the room showed a set of comfortable leather chairs against a wall.
Black-and-white framed photographs of the Capitol building, Lincoln Memorial,
and Presidents John F. Kennedy and Lyndon B. Johnson decorated the wall.

The
secretary looked up. Her glance seemed to bounce off Honey Belle as she
acknowledged the gentleman, her voice pleasant, yet all business. “Good
morning, Senator Clarksdale. He’s expecting you.”

As
the senator opened the door, Honey Belle craned her neck hoping to catch a
glimpse of the man she longed to see, yet at the same time dreading the
encounter.

Before
the door closed she heard Senator Clarksdale say, “We need to talk, Senator.”

Honey
Belle’s heart fluttered as she stepped forward. She couldn’t help but wonder
about the woman’s expression toward her. Not friendly. Indifferent, Honey Belle
decided.

She
felt a little unnerved as the woman seemed to scrutinize her. “If you are here
to see the senator, he isn’t taking any appointments.”

For
a long moment, Honey Belle held the secretary’s gaze. The woman removed her
glasses, plucked a tissue from a box on the corner of her desk and began wiping
them.

Honey
Belle glanced at the gold nameplate on the desk. “Oh, I see, Mrs. Evans. Is he
not taking appointments for today, only, or for the rest of the week?”

The
secretary put her glasses back on again, scowling softly. “The rest of the
week. He’s quite busy.”

“Five
minutes is all I need. Just five minutes.”

The
woman harrumphed. “That’s what they all say.”

Honey
Belle searched her mind for a logical argument. Right now she felt taut and
insecure. “I’m certain everyone also says their business with Senator Hartwell
is important. The truth is my business with him is...urgent.”

“Yes,
of course, it is.” The secretary’s voice sounded droll. As if she’d heard
that
excuse a thousand times before.

****

Meanwhile,
in that very same office, Tripp stared at the other side of that same closed
door, praying that someone would enter and save him from Senator Clarksdale’s
tiresome laments about the way the Arms Committee was shaping up. The man was a
proverbial worrywart.

“Listen,
Tripp, I don’t have the same clout as you carry. All I know is that if we don’t
have all the i’s dotted and t’s crossed, the President will veto this bill and
send it back to the House. We can’t risk even the smallest delay.”

Tripp
reached down to rub away the phantom pains he still felt in his missing limb.
He stood stiffly and walked around the desk. Clapping Clarksdale on the
shoulder, he reassured him. “You worry too much, Jim. Rest assured this bill
will pass. The future of our service men and women and the future safety of our
country depend on it.”

When
it came to protecting his country, he acted with utter assurance that his
decisions would not be countermanded. He reached for the cane resting at the
corner of his desk. His leg hurt like the dickens...no, not his leg...it wasn’t
there anymore...the prosthesis.

He
gripped the brass knob and pulled the office door open. “Keep me abreast of any
changes, Jim. We don’t have much time before we go into session.”

The
senator nodded. It wasn’t until Clarksdale stepped aside and moved toward the
exit door that Honey Belle came into view. Squaring his shoulders and wincing
at the pain where the artificial leg fitted above his knee, Tripp stared at the
woman, her golden brow pinched with concern. Her face searched his as if
looking for some kind of answer. He thought she looked tense and frightened.

“Mrs.
Evans, what time am I to meet with the new group of junior congressional pages
tomorrow?” He observed the younger woman’s heightened color at his words. Some
inner reflex caused him to speak to her.

“Excuse
me. Have we met?”

She
spoke, a slight quake to her voice. “A very long time ago. I-I know how busy
you are, Senator Hartwell, but it’s imperative I speak to you...in private.”

The
secretary stood as if Honey Belle had overstepped boundaries. “Senator, may I
remind you that—”

Tripp
sent the woman a scowl as if reminding her that he was still capable of making
decisions. He turned toward the opened door to his office. With a sweeping
motion of his free hand he invited Honey Belle in. “I can spare a few minutes.”

****

Honey
Belle straightened. Her heart went out to him. She knew from past television
reports and newspaper accounts of his heroic actions in Vietnam and how he’d
lost his leg, and even after all these years she knew him well enough to see
the pain he hid so well from others.

Neither
of them moved as they stared at each other. His muscles seemed frozen, and, for
a second, she was certain he didn’t recognize her. Suddenly, she felt guilty
showing up this way, without warning, unannounced. She had thought it would be
easier, somehow. That she would know what to say. She didn’t. Everything she
had in her head to say seemed inappropriate. Thoughts of the summer they had
shared together in South Carolina came back to her, and, as she stared at him,
she noticed how little he had changed since the last time she’d seen him.

She
tried not to be unsettled by this tall, powerful man. He towered over her, his
stare drilling into her. His eyes seemed to capture her from hair to
high-heeled shoes. Clearing her throat, she tried to appear businesslike.

“Have
I changed so much that you don’t recognize me, Tripp?” This wasn’t at all the
way she had rehearsed the scene in her head. She didn’t blink an eye—afraid any
reaction might betray her uncertainty.

“Look,
miss, I don’t have time for twenty questions. I meet a lot of people, if—”

She
wanted him to remember, to remember her, to remember—what? That seventeen years
ago she had walked away from him? That she hadn’t had the courage to stand up
to his father and fight for her position in the life of the man she loved. That
for sixteen years she had raised the son he never knew existed. She should
never have left Tripp. So much guilt, for so many mistakes. She had no one to
blame but herself.

She
lifted her eyes to his. “Seventeen years ago, in Charleston, South Carolina, I
asked you to take me for a ride in your shiny white BMW.”

The
silence of the office closed in around her. Every feminine instinct screamed a
warning that he would deny knowing her.

He
shook his head as if flummoxed. “Honey Belle Garrett?”

When
his frowning gaze swept over her, she felt completely inadequate. Something she
hadn’t felt for a long time. The force of his scowl was like a windstorm
scorching her skin.

“Why
are you here?”

She
wanted to reach out to him. To touch him. Instead, she kept her hands clenched
around the handle of the briefcase that held the condemning evidence Judge
Hartwell had threatened to use against her. “There’s an important reason for
leaving my home in Georgia and coming to D.C., Tripp. Believe me I would rather
have stayed in Valdosta and completely out of your life, forever.”

She
watched the muscle in his jaw work as he motioned toward a chair. “Please,
sit.”

Glancing
around the space, her laughter was more of a nervous twitter. “Maybe I’ve
watched too many spy movies, but is it possible your office is...bugged?”