No Safe Place (70 page)

Once more he drew her close. “The thing is,” he continued, “I’m forty-three. Even if we started tomorrow, by the time our first son or daughter graduates from college I’ll be on Social Security. If there’s any left.”

“Tell that to the Pope.”

“Oh, I have. I even mentioned that Meg couldn’t stand the thought of children.” There was a different tone in his voice, Lara thought; hand gently touching her chin, he raised her face to his. “And, at last, he’s heard me.”

She felt a tingle of surprise. “The annulment?”

Kerry grinned. “Yes. That.”

Astonished, Lara pulled back to look at him. “When?”

“Yesterday.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was in Pittsburgh.” There was new light in his eyes, and he spoke more softly. “This just seemed like a better time and place.”

Knowing how much he wanted this, Lara felt the depth of her love for him. This moment was the last threshold, she knew, before she entered the hall of mirrors which was the Presidency, the omnipresent, often merciless scrutiny which could change lives and warp marriages until even the most private act assumed a public significance. Briefly, she thought of her abortion, felt the familiar stab of fear. Then she thought of Kerry, and imagined their children.

“Is Labor Day too soon?” she asked, and kissed him.

Later, they turned to the practical. It began with her wistful comment, “Let’s run away. Or at least have a private wed-ding—maybe at the Inn at Little Washington.”

“Besieged by the media?” Kerry asked. “With helicopters circling? We’d look like Madonna—except that the public would hate us for it.”

“Of course,” she answered dryly. “How could I forget our stockholders?” She emitted a brief sigh. “I was thinking about us, of all people. And my family. You and I may be public people, but they’re not used to this.”

Quietly, Kerry pondered that. Her family, as he had learned, was as complex as most, their relations more fraught than many. But these realities lived beneath a surface which, for image-makers, was the stuff of dreams. For Kerry, there was no one left; two months before, quite suddenly, he had lost his beloved mother. But Lara had two sisters, a niece, and a handsome mother who, collectively, would be catnip for any Democratic media consultant worth his fees—the Hispanic cleaning woman who had raised three bright and attractive daughters, seen them through college, and who with the two youngest girls would now watch the oldest become the new
First Lady. And though Kerry did not say this, Lara knew that
his advisors would envision uses for her family beyond attending their wedding.

“I won’t have them exploited,” she said. “How many Presidential relatives begin by thinking it’s all so wonderful, then find out too late their lives will never be the same.”

She saw resistance in his face, the wish to believe—despite all he knew—that this time would be different. “That sounds a little dire,” he answered. “For my part, I’ll never let my people turn the Costello family into reality TV.”

Faintly, Lara smiled. “Then you might begin with Clayton.”

At this mention of Kerry’s Chief of Staff, his closest friend and protector, Kerry smiled back. “Clayton? If he wants to be Best Man, he’ll remember which one of us is President.” Pausing, he assured her, “Seriously, I worry about them, too.”

“I know you do.”

The telephone rang.

Distractedly, Kerry picked it up. “It’s midnight on the Fourth of July,” he wryly told the operator. “Are we at war?”

Pausing, Kerry listened. His eyes grew hooded, his face sober. “Put her through,” he ordered.

“Who is it?” Lara murmured.

Covering the telephone, Kerry met her gaze. “Your sister
Joan. For me.”

Kerry had begun to fear for Lara’s sister the previous November.

Until then, he had not met her family. Returning to California to thank supporters for his narrow victory, Kerry asked Lara to invite them for dinner at his favorite San Francisco steakhouse, Alfred’s—Lara’s mother, Inez; her youngest sister, Mary; and Joan, her husband, John, and their six-year-old daughter, Marie. But the dinner, while a great success with Inez and Mary, was marred for Lara by the absence of the Bowden family. Joan had food poisoning, she had told Lara that morning—they would all meet Kerry on his next trip out.

At dinner’s end, Kerry and Lara dropped off Inez and Mary, and the black limousine, shepherded by Kerry’s Secret Service detail, headed for their hotel. “I liked them,” Kerry told her. “Very much. Your mother’s a lot like mine was, but feistier and less reserved.”

Lara was quiet. “Mom was embarrassed,” she said at length. “All that chattering about Joan—she thinks Joan’s lying.”

In the darkness of the limousine, Kerry could not read her face. “Why?”

“Aside from being too ‘sick’ to meet my future husband, the President-elect, or see me for the first time in almost a year? So sick that John and Marie didn’t come without her?” Lara turned to him. “This wasn’t about bad fish. In the ladies’ room, Mary admitted that they hardly see her now.”

This touched a nerve in Kerry. “Is it the husband?” he asked.

Lara did not answer. “I’m going to see her, Kerry. Before we leave.”

Joan and her family lived in a bungalow in the Crocker-Amazon district, houses snug together along the rise and fall of urban hillocks sectioned by the grid of city blocks. Though modest in size, the house was freshly painted, the drawn curtains frilly and neatly pressed, and the front porch brightened by pots of multihued geraniums. The door bore the label of a security service; rather than a doorbell, the button Lara pressed was for an intercom.

Lara waited for some minutes. When her sister’s voice came through the intercom, it sounded disembodied. “Who is it?”

“Lara.”

Once more there was silence. “I’m sorry, Lara.” The delayed response, wan and uninviting, made Lara edgy. “I really don’t feel well.”

“Food poisoning’s not contagious.” To her chagrin, Lara recognized her own tone as that of the oldest sister, prodding the others to rise and shine. “Please,” she implored, “I’ve missed you. I can’t leave without at least seeing you.”

Joan did not answer. Then, at length, the door cracked open. For a moment, Lara saw only half of her sister’s face.

“I’m so glad you’re home,” Lara said.

Joan hesitated, then opened the door wider.

Her right eye was swollen shut. The neatly applied eyeliner and curled lashes of Joan’s unblemished eye only deepened her sister’s horror.

“Oh, Joanie.” The words issued from Lara’s throat in a low rush. “My God …”

“It’s not what you’re thinking,” Joan protested. “I fell in the shower. I got faint from the food poisoning, and slipped.”

Pushing the door open, Lara stepped inside, then closed it behind them. She placed both hands on Joan’s shoulders.

“I’m not a fool, Joanie. I’ve seen this before, remember?”

Her sister seemed to flinch at Lara’s touch. “So you say. I was three when he left.”

Lara stepped back, arms falling to her sides.

Her sister’s face was plumper, Lara saw, but its stubborn defensive cast was the same. The well-kept living room, too,
was much as Lara recalled—the polished wooden floor; a spotless
oriental rug; immaculate white furniture; a shelf of neatly spaced family photographs. Spotting a formal portrait of Marie, dark and pretty, Lara paused to study it. More calmly, she asked, “Does Mom know?”

“She doesn’t want to know.” Brief resentment crossed Joan’s face—at whom, Lara was not sure. “She likes John. You’re the only one who thinks it’s great for children not to have a father. That’s what
I
remember—not having one.”

“Then I envy you, Joanie. I remember him quite well.”

“Don’t patronize me, dammit.” Joan’s speech became staccato. “Everything worked out for you: great looks, perfect grades, famous friends, a multimillion-dollar contract—oh, don’t think for a minute Mom didn’t tell us about
that
. And now you’re marrying the goddammed President-elect of the United States.”

“All I need do for you to resent me,” Lara shot back, “is exist.” Fighting her own anger, she finished, “I’m marrying a man who treats me with respect. You deserve that, too.”

Joan stood straighter. “We have a good life,” she insisted. “He’s good to Marie. It’s not that often, or that bad.”

“How often does it have to be, Joanie? How bad does it have to get?”

Joan’s voice rose. “That’s so easy for you to say. What does your life have to do with mine?”

“I’m your sister, and I care about you. We’re not competing.” Lara paused, speaking more quietly, “Don’t take a beating on
my
account. Or Marie’s.”

Abruptly, Joan turned from her. “Please leave, Lara. This is
my
home. I didn’t invite you here.”

Gazing at her sister’s back, Lara felt frustration turn to helplessness, then a piercing regret. Briefly, she touched her sister’s shoulder.

Joan remained frozen, back still turned to Lara. After a moment, Lara let herself out.

“I’m worse than useless to her,” Lara said sadly. “Proving me wrong is one more reason for her to stay.” In the thin
November sunlight of midmorning, she and Kerry
walked through a narrow valley in Marin County, headed toward a blue-grey ocean which flooded an inlet between jagged cliffs. Both craved exercise, escape from people and stifling rooms; on the road they scheduled an hour, when they could, to walk and talk and breathe fresh air. At a respectful distance, Secret Service agents walked in front and back of them; others watched above them, along steep hills, green from recent rains. As they continued, hands jammed in their pockets against the cold, Kerry gave her a searching look. “She resents you that much?”

“I’d forgotten quite how much. Perhaps I was hoping we’d outgrown it.” Lara gazed ahead of them at the glint of distant waves. “Some working-class mothers might have knocked me down a peg, reminded me that I was nothing special. But Mom held me up as their example.

“They had to excel, like me. They had to go to college, like me, even if they couldn’t get into Stanford, or win a scholarship.” Pausing, Lara added with irony, “So I made things worse by paying their way.”

This elicited, in Kerry, a faint smile. “Half the time,” he told her, “I loathed my brother. Jamie was so damned good at everything—so untouchable, it seemed. He was entirely self-invented, I realize now, and very much alone. But then he was the last person on earth I’d ever feel compassion for. Or listen to.”

Quiet, Lara moved closer, so that their arms brushed. At times she felt such relief at all they shared, a blessed release from the sense of solitude she had lived with for so long, that it overwhelmed her ability to tell him. “It’s that,” she finally said, “and more. Joan became the domestic one—helping Mom cook and clean, keeping track of things, not complaining. That was her value, the thing she was better at than me
or
Mary. When John Bowden came along, and wanted to enshrine her as the princess of a perfect household all her own, she was more than ready.”

“What did
you
think of him?”

“Eager to please—a little too eager, I thought. He virtually
courted our mother, as if to prove how helpful and considerate
he was. I remember her telling Joanie not to let him get away.” Lara’s tone became soft. “Then they got married, and I moved to Washington for the
Times
. Marie was born about the time I met you. They were the ideal family, Joanie claimed.”

Listening, Kerry heard more than the words themselves: that Lara felt she had been too caught up in her own career, and Kerry, to see the warning signs. “And then you went to Kosovo,” he said. “How could you have known?”

This tacit reference to their own estrangement caused Lara to take his hand. “I do now, don’t I.”

They walked in silence until they reached the beach, a grey-brown skein of sand strewn with driftwood. A redwood log stripped of bark had washed up near the lapping waves; after Lara sat, wind rustling her hair, Kerry did the same. “When I started prosecuting domestic violence cases,” he said at length, “I began to see this depressing, endless cycle. Kids who witness abuse and then grow up to be abusive—or abused. In time, Marie could become Joan.”

“So how do I help them?”

“Someone should do something. But you may not be the one.” Turning, Kerry faced her. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to talk to Joan myself.”

At once, Lara felt resistant. “This is
my
family. I know them. I’m not going to dump our problems on you.”

“They’re about to be
our
family.” Kerry looked at her intently. “You already know about my own. Too often people treat this as a family matter, something private, and it just gets worse. We’ve both seen way too much of that.”

Still Lara hesitated. Softly, Kerry asked, “What if he kills
her, Lara?”

This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming hardcover edition of
Balance of Power
by Richard North Patterson. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

A Ballantine Book
Published by The Random House Publishing Group Copyright © 1998 by Richard North Patterson Excerpt from
Balance of Power
by Richard North Patterson copyright © 2003 by Richard North Patterson

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

No Safe Place
is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Ballantine and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

www.ballantinebooks.com

eISBN: 978-0-345-46979-3

This edition published by arrangement with Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc.

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