Party Lines (8 page)

“I
told her,” she said. “But she said hardly anyone remembers it now and it was so
long ago. And besides, at the time I was using my dad’s last name –
Farmer. After that my mother had me change it to her maiden name so people
wouldn’t be able to so easily find out. I wasn’t as directly involved as some
of the other activists and plead down to lesser charges, but still it was
serious. But I’ve often thought that if I’d just done what I knew was right for
myself even then I wouldn’t have the guilt I have now.”

“Is
that part of why you were crying?” he asked.

“Yes,”
she said, burying her face in his chest. “I’ve lived a life doing what other
people expected me to do, even if it mean putting myself at risk. Only in the
last few years have I really matured, really started to take ownership of who I
am. I kind of feel like what’s happened with you
is
the last big step I’ve needed to take.”

“That
makes me feel good,” Ron said. “I’d like to think this relationship will have
meaning for both of us.”

“Is
that what this is?” Lindsay asked. “A relationship?”

“Yes,”
said Ron decisively. “Yes it is.”

Lindsay
lay there, playing with the buttons on his shirt. “I am sorry for what I did
today. I don’t know what got into me. I don’t want it to happen again, though.”
She shuddered a little. “That spanking hurt.
I mean, it
really hurt.”

“It
was supposed to,” Ron said. “Don’t ever worry that I’ll get tired of giving you
limits if you want and need them. It’s what I do. And if you ever feel like you
need a spanking, you can ask.”

She
laughed. “You’re kidding, right? Who would ask for a spanking?”

He
tilted her chin up. “Good girls who don’t want to be bad to get them.” His
mouth found hers then and they kissed, long and deep.

Tomorrow,
Ron knew his boss would ask him what he’d found out about Lindsay. And when he
did, he’d tell Bradford Hopkins that he’d found out nothing, that as far as he
could tell she was flawless. And it would not be a lie.

Chapter
Six

“Lindsay,
are you OK?” Clara Faircloth took off her glasses as she laid the folder she
was looking at on the coffee table in front of her.

“Hmm?”
Lindsay had been staring at the same papers the senatorial candidate had been looking
at, but her mind was far away. And her boss had noticed.

“Oh,
sorry. You were saying?”

Clara
shook her head and gave a short, impatient laugh. “I was asking if you are all
right,” she said. “Lately it’s like you’re off on some other planet. You know,
if something is going on in your personal life it’s none of my business…”

Lindsay
was quick to shake her head, possibly too quick. “No, there’s nothing...”

Clara
put up her hands. “Wait, wait. Let me finish. It’s none of my business unless it’s
going to affect your work.”

Lindsay
felt her face flush a bit and looked down, pretending to busy herself with the
papers in the folder. “Don’t be ridiculous, Clara,” she lied. “I don’t have a
personal life. I’m just feeling the pressure of the campaign a bit, that’s all.
Hopkins seemed so angry after that debate the other day.”

She
put her fingers to her temples and tried to calm herself. Since beginning her
relationship with Ron Sharp she’d been completely dishonest about her
whereabouts when she wasn’t with Clara. And more often than not – like on
this occasion – her mind was on him and not her work.

But
Clara seemed to buy her latest explanation and chuckled as she stood and
smoothed her grey pantsuit.

“I
wouldn’t worry about Hopkins,” she said. “He’s been in an ivory tower for so
long he’s not used to anyone taking him on, least of all a couple of broads.”

Lindsay
managed a smile. “That’s obvious. But I’m thinking I was out of place to take
that jab at him.”

Clara
looked up from where she was pouring herself a soda water at the bar. “Why?”
she asked, looking shocked. “It’s not different than the kind of stunts I’ve
seen pulled by that shark who manages the Hopkins campaign.”

“Ron
Sharp.” Lindsay closed the folder and put it down on the table, concentrating
on patting it flat instead of looking up at Clara.

“Yes.
That’s a piece of work if I’ve ever seen one,” Clara said. “A misogynist
through and through.”

Lindsay
looked up now, a bit rattled. “Why do you say that?”

Clara
poured as second drink and then picked both glasses up and walked back over to
Lindsay. Sitting down on the couch she handed her campaign manager one while
shooting her a knowing look.

“My
interior decorator is good friends with Sharp’s ex-wife,” she said quietly as
if fearing someone would overhear. “Apparently he’s steeped in the patriarchal
mindset and insisted on this ‘Father Knows Best’ lifestyle.”

Lindsay
stared down at the ice floating in her glass. “Well, you know how people
exaggerate,” she said.

Clara
shook her head. “I didn’t get the feeling this was an exaggeration. 
Apparently Sharp actually demanded obedience from his wife.”

“Well
that’s certainly not for everyone,” Lindsay said.

“Not
for everyone?” Clara gave a hard laugh. “This day in age it shouldn’t be for
anyone.”

Lindsay
stood and walked over to the bar to refill her drink, hoping that concentrating
on the task would give her something to focus on besides Clara Faircloth.

“People
are different,” said Lindsay. “It could be that Ron Sharp’s just an
old-fashioned guy. I mean, there are some left, even if they are few and far
between.”

“Thank
God for that,” Clara said. “And the sooner they die off entirely the better. It
shouldn’t be too far off, given the fact that women no longer want that sort of
man.”

“Oh,
I don’t know,”
Lindsay
said. She wanted to stop
talking about it, but could not. Even though Clara had no clue that she was a
submissive Lindsay felt the need to defend herself. “I mean
,
some women still want a traditional way of life.”

“You
mean where a man calls all the shots? Maybe if they’re stupid. Smart women
demand equality, not the likes of a guy like Ron Sharp.”

Lindsay
felt like she’d been slapped across the face. “Well, I’m not prepared to advance
that kind of judgment about the personal choices or tastes of others,” she
said, and only after the words were out did she realize how angry her tone
sounded. When she looked up she saw Clara staring at her with a look of hurt
surprise on her face.

“Good
heavens,” Lindsay,” she said softly. “I had no idea you had such strong
opinions on the matter, or that you were so quick to defend the likes of Ron
Sharp.”

Lindsay
shook her head and waved her hand in front of her, as if trying to wave the
whole conversation away.

“No,
I wasn’t trying…look, just forget it,” she said. “I’m sorry if I’m being testy.
I’ve just got a lot on my mind.”

“The
campaign?” Clara asked
,
her eyes fixed on Lindsay.

“Yeah,”
Lindsay replied. “The campaign.”

***

“Maybe
this isn’t the best idea.”  Lindsay leaned her head against Ron’s shoulder
and sighed.

The
two of them were sitting in a townhouse he had rented specifically as a getaway
for the two of them. Another article was due out about the campaigns – a
piece in The Times that would highlight both the managers – and neither
wanted to take a chance on being spotted with their personalities now part of
the media focus.

“Don’t
say that.” Ron slipped the sheet down and kissed her shoulder.

It
hadn’t taken long for their relationship to turn physical. Both felt they’d
found their ideological – if not political – soulmate.

“Clara
said you have a reputation for being old-fashioned.”

Ron
laughed. “Does she, now? And she bases this on…”

“The
word of her decorator, a friend of your ex-wife’s.”

Ron
sighed. “That would be Andrea. She always hated me and made it her personal
mission to help Tina ‘break the bonds of patriarchal oppression.’ And Tina
being Tina felt more allegiance to her friends’ opinion than she did to me. Or
to Brian.”

He
sighed then and turned to Lindsay. “No, that’s not fair. Regardless of our
differences, Tina is a good mother. I can’t fault her for that. But I do fault
her for walking away from what I believed she really wanted because she felt
bullied by her feminist friends.”

Ron
reached over and caressed Lindsay’s cheek. “I hope you aren’t going to
eventually feel that way, because if you do please let me know sooner than
later. This ‘patriarchal’ guy has some vulnerabilities of his own.”

“Ron
Sharp has vulnerabilities?” Lindsay laughed.

“Yes
indeed!” He reached down and took her hand, kissing it before looking into her
eyes. “Whether you know it or not, young lady, I’ve invested more trust in you
than I ever thought I’d invest in anyone again.”

“I’ve
done the same thing,” Lindsay replied. “I mean, I told you about my involvement
with that fire when I was a college activist. Only a handful of people know
that, and they’re all people I completely trust.” She sighed. “It’s a small
list, really. I don’t want people to judge me by my past, you know. I mean, I’ve
made mistakes and feel fortunate I didn’t get in more trouble. Since then I’ve
learned to temper my social activism with common sense and have worked to make
positive change, you know?”

He
nodded. “Yes. And you have. Even if we’re on opposite poles of the political
spectrum I admire your commitment to Clara Faircloth’s campaign.”

“I
wouldn’t have taken the job as her manager if I didn’t believe in her platform,”
Lindsay said. “I know there are people out there who shill for candidates
because it’s a good living. But I couldn’t stand up in front of people in my
community and pretend to support someone I knew wasn’t worth the office.”

Ron
smiled. “That’s very noble,” he said. “And rare in this game. It’s so
dog-eat-dog in politics. I hope you never change.”

“I
don’t plan to,” she said, smiling at him. “I feel really fortunate, Ron.
Really fortunate.
  I have this great job. I have you. I’d
say my life is just about perfect.” She paused. “Except for the sneaking
around. I don’t like this at all.”

“Neither
do I,” Ron said, sliding his arm around her shoulders and pulling her to him
for a kiss. “But don’t worry. We won’t have to do it forever. When the time is
right, everyone will know everything.”

***

Randall
Zell, metro editor of The Times, was not having a good day. In the space of
just a few hours he’d had to kill a front page story after a source’s
credibility had been called in question, been informed of an error in another
story that would warrant a correction and had just finished reading what he
considered a lackluster rehash of the Faircloth and Hopkins campaigns.

Sitting
back in the chair he glared at reporter Sandra Beckwith.

“Is
this really the best you could do?” he asked. “I mean, come on, Sandra. All
this has already been reported.”

“What
is exactly what I tried to tell you when you assigned this to me.” She ran her
hand through her frizzy red hair. Unlike some reporters, Beckwith wasn’t afraid
to speak her mind, and now she was quick to remind her boss that there was
nothing new to report on other than the latest back-and-forth between the two
candidates.

“Everything
that can be drudged up has been drudged up by the respective campaigns,” she
said. “That leaves little for jackals like us to feed on.”

Zell
shot her a look. “Careful,” he said. “Even if it’s true you shouldn’t say it.”

Beckwith
smirked.

Zell
tapped the printout copy of the article and sighed. “I’d wanted to run this on
1A to replace the story that got bumped, but it’s so goddamned boring.” He
looked up at the reporter. “No offense.”

“None
taken,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“I
think maybe…” he began, then excused
himself
to answer
the phone that had begun ringing on his desk.

“Randy
here.”

Beckwith
watched as her boss listened intently to whoever was on the other line. Then he
sat forward and got a gleam in his eye that she’d seen before. He had
something. Something big.

“And
you’re sure about this?” he asked, scribbling on a piece of paper. “Because we
can’t risk a lawsuit over a case of mistaken identity. I’ll need to see some
proof.”

He
was quiet for a moment. “You sent it to my email? Well hold on and let me have
a look.”