Gospel (7 page)

‘You haven't even talked?'

‘Not unless you include four-way conversations with our lawyers as go-betweens.'

Sara paused before going on. ‘Maybe you should,' she said at last.

‘What?'

‘Maybe you should, you know, talk, bury the hatchet.'

‘Sara, you have no reason to be . . .'

‘I know. But . . .'

He reached across the table, taking both of her hands in his. ‘Look, I admit, it hurt for a long time, but I am so over it, so over her. We were just kids.'

‘But you loved her.'

‘Well, yeah, as much as you can when you are nineteen and your whole world revolves around passing finals and passing out at keg parties.'

She said nothing, wondering how far to push, but then decided, as much as this may hurt, she really needed to know.

‘Did she leave you for him?'

David took a deep breath before answering.

‘When I first met Karin she was in her first year of nursing at BC. She was friends with my sister; they were in the same classes, hung out with the same crowd.

‘We had only been dating for about six months when we decided to cut to the chase and get married. I had just started my first year of law and she decided to transfer out of nursing to study medicine at BU. She was smart and determined, one of those people who sucked the marrow out of life – always in a hurry to learn and get ahead, which she did.

‘Anyway,' he said, looking up from his breakfast. ‘Four years later she graduated with honours and went straight to Washington Memorial for her residency. She wanted to specialise in cardiovascular medicine and Washington was the best. So, there was never any question really. She went there, I stayed here.'

‘But why didn't you go with her?'

‘We thought we could handle the long distance relationship. I had only just passed the bar and we'd just bought a house we couldn't afford. I spent my days working as a paralegal and my nights pouring Guinness at a second-rate pub in Southie.'

‘And Montgomery?'

‘He ran the cardiac surgical team at WH. He was fifteen years her senior, the famous surgeon with the even more famous patients. He was rich, successful, good looking. It was a no-brainer really. I was no competition.'

‘Arthur once told me she just walked out – broke up with you in a note.'

‘Yeah,' he sighed. ‘She came home for Thanksgiving. I guess her original plan was to tell me in person, but I went out for a bottle of wine and
came back to an empty house and a note on the mantelpiece. She said something about hating goodbyes. I guess she knew what she wanted, and I wasn't it.'

‘Did you try to contact her?'

‘Of course, but she made it clear she didn't want to speak to me. It was kinda pathetic really. I sat around for at least a year waiting for a phone call that never came.'

Sara looked into his green eyes and saw the years of rejection coming back to haunt him. There was so much more she wanted to know, but she feared that perhaps she had pushed too far and took comfort in the fact he had told her this much. Besides, beyond the memories of rejection she sensed there was something else in his expression – a closure on his part, a resolution to move on.

She moved around the table and sat down on his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him softly on the forehead.

‘It's her loss,' she said, bending lower to kiss his eyes, his cheek, his neck. ‘Don't you see, David? As soon as she left you, the minute she walked out that door it became her loss and my gain.' She started to undo the buttons on his shirt, pulling it back across his shoulders.

‘Karin may have been bad at goodbyes,' she said. ‘But me, I am the worst.'

‘Really?' he said, returning her kisses, slowly, softly.

‘Really,' she answered. ‘Which is why I never intend to say it. I am afraid you are stuck with me, Mr Cavanaugh, like it or not.'

He took her in his arms and lifted her up, kissing her deeply as he carried her to the bedroom. And in that moment she sensed that all of the lonely days and nights he had spent waiting for his ex-wife to call were not the end of what should have been, but the beginning of what was meant to be. If he hadn't lost Karin they would never have this.

‘I love you, Sara Davis,' he said as he put her down on the bed, lifting his old Boston College t-shirt over her head and throwing it across the other side of the room.

‘I know,' she said before kissing him again. ‘I know.'

M
yrtle McGee's was a popular café at the northern end of Downtown Boston. The fresh food and juice spot was a regular stop for a loyal clientele who would drop in for a long tall cup of Myrtle's famous combination squeezed juices or strong Brazilian coffees before heading off to one of the thousands of offices and retail centres in America's oldest business district.

This morning its owner, a large copper-topped, freckle-faced Irishman named Mick McGee, stood behind the lime green counter with a pot of coffee in one hand and a carrot in the other, his crooked smile a familiar welcome as David and his friend Tony Bishop walked through the front glass doors.

‘Well, Mr Bishop,' said the bachelor Mick who swore his café was a success because people assumed he had a cheery wife named Myrtle who did all the cooking somewhere ‘out back'. ‘Still hanging around with the likes of young Cavanaugh, I see. Glutton for punishment, are we?'

‘Hi, Mick,' said Tony with a smile. ‘David isn't so bad really, kinda grows on you after a while.'

‘Hmmm, like a particularly annoying rash, I suppose,' grinned Mick, shaking both their hands as he turned to the juicer to make their regular concoctions of carrot and apple and pineapple and orange.

‘Very funny, Mick,' smiled David.

‘What's he so happy about this morning?' asked the Irishman.

‘Sara's back,' said Tony.

Mick rolled his eyes. ‘Ah, that'll do it. Now there's a real lady. Don't know what she sees in him either.'

‘You and Nora should do a double act.' David smiled again.

‘It's the Irish in us, son,' said Mick with a wink. ‘Perceptive and honest.'

‘And full of crap,' finished David.

‘Ah yes, and that too, I suppose,' laughed Mick. ‘You boys got time for breakfast?'

‘Just a quick one,' said Tony, looking at his watch. ‘I got a meeting in Washington. My plane leaves in a couple of hours.'

Tony Bishop worked for a blue chip firm called Williams, Coolidge and Harrison, a high profile practice whose clientele included everything from major oil companies to multinational conglomerates with interests in travel, electronics, insurance and tobacco. He was smart and ambitious, and savvy enough to realise that in the high-powered world of top-notch attorneys, contacts and information were everything. Keeping your finger on the ever-changing political pulse was key to keeping your clients happy, especially when half of them were major political contributors who always expected their quid pro quo.

The pair took a seat at the back of the café overlooking what was this morning a crisp and clear Christopher Columbus Park and the Harbour beyond. Minutes later they were tucking into a generous serving of poached eggs with bacon and roasted tomatoes with a side of hash browns and chutney, a mug apiece of Mick's bottomless coffee beside them.

David wanted to get Tony's take on the weekend's events, sure that his friend would be up with the latest. As well as his legal fraternity contacts, Tony's older brother James was a Congressman and, given their closeness, there was no doubt they would have swapped respective views on the political lay of the land.

That said, David's friendship with his law school buddy was one based on trust and discretion, so David knew Tony would never cross the line between friendly banter and revealing information confidential to his brother or his clients, and he respected him for it.

‘So,' began David, ‘I would imagine you are facing a hell of a week.'

‘You can say that again,' said Tony, shaking his head. ‘On the surface Bradshaw's death is a tragedy that demands a period of stillness, you know, the mandatory public pause for grief. On the other more realistic front it calls for some serious damage control. This is an election year, my friend, and Bradshaw's demise is one major setback for the government.' Tony re-filled his coffee mug before going on.

‘The opposition will put on a show of regret and express their condolences for the late VP, mainly because they know how popular the guy was and any open signs of opportunism would backfire. But make no mistake, the removal of Bradshaw gives them a massive advantage and they will be laughing all the way to the polls.'

‘So what does the government do?' asked David.

‘Well, they start by throwing every respected pollster on the case of gauging public opinion. They need to work out exactly how much damage has been done. They figure it will take a week or two for the masses to absorb it all and then decide how it is going to affect their vote. So the next few weeks will be crucial.'

‘And what's your take on the election?'

‘Between you and me, as a man with clients who have entire departments determining the next political palm to grease, if I were Latham, I'd start packing. Unless they come up with a publicity campaign which immortalises Bradshaw's popularity and consolidates his anti-drug policies, they are seriously up the creek without a paddle.'

‘Anti-drug policies?' said David. ‘How on earth can they capitalise on that now? I mean, the man overdosed for God's sake.'

‘True, but Bradshaw was unique. The people forgave him once and my guess is the President's spin doctors will ask them to do it again.'

They sat quietly for a moment, finishing their eggs before going on.

‘So who do they find to replace him?' asked David.

‘Ah,' said Tony. ‘The $64,000 question. That, my friend, will be interesting.'

‘How so?'

‘Well, the way I see it they have two options. They either go for a young unknown with similar energy and appeal as Bradshaw or someone older, more reliable, a familiar face to comfort them in uncertain times. My guess is the latter, but that in itself causes problems because Latham is
seventy-four with a heart condition. But to be honest,' Tony hesitated, ‘it's not just the popularity process that bothers me.'

‘They're politicians, Tony, what else is there?'

Tony took another sip of his coffee and David could see he was editing his comments, wanting to discuss his concerns but careful not to overstep the mark.

‘There's no question Bradshaw's death is a major blow for Latham, but that doesn't mean there aren't some within his own Party who won't see this as an opportunity. The Vice President was a powerful man in more ways than one. He was a brilliant lobbyist who wielded a hell of a lot of influence in Congress, and more specifically on the House and Senate Appropriations Committees. His anti-drug programs were popular but expensive and that money had to come from somewhere.'

‘So you're saying every dollar that went to the DEA or drug rehabilitation was taken from somewhere else . . . from somebody else.'

‘Exactly. The Departments of Transport, Agriculture, Health, Commerce, Housing, Defense, you name it, they all suffered cuts and there were many who weren't too happy about it. But the drug thing brought votes and in an election year . . .'

‘It's all about winning another term.'

‘Right again.'

‘So Bradshaw stepped on a few toes,' said David. ‘That can't be anything new. Isn't it all about robbing Peter to pay Paul?'

‘Yes, and from what I hear, the Vice President's motives were noble. But he was so good at it, almost too good. The man made enemies, David, and there are those who will be, well, let's just say there are those who may benefit politically and financially from his passing.'

‘Tony, you're not suggesting . . .'

‘No, I am not, so you can wipe that “David Cavanaugh super sleuth” expression off your face. But don't you think the timing is odd? I mean, by all accounts he was at the top of his game, on the verge of greatness, happily married, two young kids.'

‘But it was an overdose. According to all the news reports the FBI has ruled out foul play.'

‘And so be it. They certainly know better than us dim-witted lawyers,' he smiled. ‘And in any case, let's face it, the alternative is unthinkable.'

‘Why do I get the feeling you're not totally convinced?' asked David. ‘Did your brother say something?'

‘James? No way. Everybody thinks my brother gives me all this information when in reality the guy is tighter than a clam. He's one of the good guys, plays it by the book, takes the need for confidentiality seriously. Me, I'm one of the crazy dudes who sees a conspiracy theory behind every glass of spilt milk. And what do I know in any case? I'm just another suit billing four figures an hour. I've just become too cynical in my old age – which is entirely your fault by the way.'

‘Oh really?' smiled David. ‘How so?'

‘Well, maybe there is part of me who is jealous of
you
, and your never-ending pursuit of the “truth”.'

‘Yeah right, you covet me all the way to the bank with your top performing stock options and six figure investment accounts,' laughed David, always enjoying a chance to have a go at his ambitious but well-meaning friend.

‘No seriously, sometimes I wish I was the one saving the innocent, representing justice in its purest American form.'

‘Until 8am every morning when, wearing your three thousand dollar Italian suit, you climb into your silver Porsche 911 and head down town to your fiftieth floor office to take in the spectacular Harbour views.'

‘Ah yes. Good point,' said Tony, downing the last of his coffee before straightening his tie and checking his reflection in the back of a teaspoon.