Smoke and Mirrors (10 page)

"Don't forget women," Rosemary interrupted, her lip curling. "It drives me crazy to hear women referred to as a special-interest group, but it's common usage. Half the goddamn population of the country . . . All right, Kay, all right, no more cussing. Your definition is technically correct, Erin, but in actual fact PACs were set up to get around the laws limiting the amount of individual campaign contributions. If I could afford it Id refuse to take PAC money, even from organizations whose aims I would ordinarily support. . . . Kay, what the hell are you doing? I don't have much time."

"I have to lock up," Kay said. "There are important papers in my desk, you know. It wouldn't do to leave them lying around."

Rosemary's hands clenched, but she said nothing, only watched in stoic silence as Kay fumbled with keys and locks.

"But aren't PAC contributions limited too?" Erin asked.

"Yes—by federal law. But some states have no reporting requirement, and others allow contributions over the federal limit. In theory this money is supposed to be used only to benefit local candidates and parties, but a lot of it is diverted out of state. Oh, it's too complicated to explain in a few minutes; ask Joe to explain the difference between hard and soft money. Or Nick; he adores showing off his expertise to attractive young women. Kay, if you don't stop, I swear I'll go to the Sheraton looking like this."

Erin followed at a modest distance; but when she would have continued up the stairs to the third floor Kay stopped her with a sharp question. "Where are you going? I'll need you to do some pressing. "

"We didn't hire her to be a maid of all work, Kay," Rosemary protested.

"You didn't hire me as a maid, either. I'm not ashamed to help out in any way I can, and neither should Erin be."

"I'm not. Anything I can do, of course."

She wasn't sorry to have a chance to see Rosemary's private quarters, and possibly—dream on, she told herself—make a few modest suggestions about clothes. Rosemary's request for Kay's assistance might have been a tactful means of getting her secretary away from her desk and onto her bed for the rest she needed, but if Kay was her adviser on wardrobe and makeup, Erin could understand why Rosemary looked a little dowdy.

Rosemary's bedroom wasn't really a letdown, or a surprise. Erin had grown accustomed to the casual life-style and organized chaos that characterized both the candidate and the campaign. The room had been beautifully decorated and furnished with fine antiques, dominated by a mahogany highboy and canopied bed. The
color scheme was blue and white, restful if unimaginative. But the clutter was indescribable. Papers covered every flat surface, books lay in untidy heaps; a television set glared from one corner and an IBM Selectric on a table by the window proved that Rosemary shared her generation's suspicion of word processors.

Adjoining the bedroom was a dressing room, with clothes hanging from open racks and shoes neatly aligned. It contained an ironing board and sewing supplies—everything needed to keep a wardrobe in repair. To Erin it seemed beautifully organized, but Kay began apologizing for its condition. "I just don't know what I'm going to do, things are in such a mess, and the girls don't know how to take care of them—"

Rosemary cut her short. "I'm going to take a quick shower. Stop fussing, Kay, everything looks fine. Pick out a dress. The aqua or the rose, I think."

When she came out of the adjoining bathroom, modestly wrapped in a cotton robe, Erin was passing the iron carefully over a smooth stretch of rosy-pink silk, while Kay breathed anxiously down the back of her neck and asked for the fifth time if she was sure she hadn't set the iron too high.

"It's fine, great, perfect," Rosemary said impatiently. "Leave it, Erin. Kay, you go lie down on my bed. You can supervise this massive undertaking and we'll carry out your orders. Erin, would you get the jewelry boxes? They're in the second drawer of the wardrobe. What do you think, Kay—the pearls or the gold earrings and necklace?"

Kay settled herself and watched complacently as Erin trotted back and forth, helping Rosemary into her dress, hanging up the robe, locating the jewelry and carrying it to the dressing table where Rosemary sat. As the boxes were opened and their glittering contents displayed, Erin wondered where Rosemary kept her good jewelry, and why she wasn't wearing any of it. These ornaments were all fake—faux, to be more elegant—although they were expensive and in excellent taste. The pearls, on which Kay decided (against Erin's judgment), were obviously cultured.

She helped Rosemary fasten the clasp and watched while she inserted the matching earrings with quick, impatient fingers.

"You've torn a nail," she said hesitantly.

"Oh, shit, so I have." Rosemary glanced guiltily in the mirror. "Sorry, Kay, it just slipped out. ..." But Kay's eyes had closed and she made no comment. Rosemary let out a little breath of relief. "Is she asleep?"

"I think so."

"Good." Rosemary picked at the broken nail.

"Don't do that," Erin exclaimed involuntarily. "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to sound . . . Would you let me?"

"With pleasure." She held out her hand. "Do you really like to do this sort of thing?" she asked curiously, as Erin carefully trimmed the mutilated nail. "Or are you just being polite? You don't have to—do it, or be polite about it. I'm quite accustomed to looking after myself. And," she added with a smile, "I get the impression, from the way you've been looking at me, that you don't think I do it very well."

"You always look nice," Erin murmured.

"Nice, she says." Rosemary leaned back in her chair and ran her fingers through her hair. She had taken out the pins that held it in its regal, upswept coiffure, and it stood out around her face like Medusa's snakes. "Nice is, I'm afraid, the safest option for a lady candidate. Nice and neat and well-groomed. I wish television had never been invented. I spend more time thinking about how I look than what I'm going to say; the damned political process has become a beauty contest." Then she burst out laughing, muting the sound into a rich chuckle in deference to the sleeper. "Erin, you have the most transparent face. I know exactly what you're thinking: if that woman doesn't stop pawing at her hair, I'm going to scream! Just hand me that brush, will you please?'

She was easily persuaded to let Erin do the brushing and pin the thick, heavy locks into a becoming shape. "You look lovely," Erin said, when the job was done. "You really do."

Rosemary glanced casually into the mirror. "Rich but not gaudy? But not too rich, nobody will give me money if I look prosperous. Thanks, Erin. I'd better run; Joe will be here any minute and patience is not one of his virtues." She reached for the lacy stole Erin had laid out for her and then paused, glancing at the sleeping woman. "Maybe I ought to wake her and help her into her own bed."

"Would you like me to stay with her?" Erin asked.

"Would you? That is kind. I'm afraid she may be disoriented— from the pain and the medication—when she wakes. She could fall, or stumble. ..." Rosemary bit her lip. "Poor Kay, she's hating this that's why she's so brusque and impatient. I hope you weren't offended by the way she spoke to you. It's not like her, she's usually not so—so peremptory."

Erin rather doubted that; but if Rosemary allowed her secretary to scold her like a naughty child, she, Erin, was in no position to complain.

"Honestly, I don't mind a bit. I only hope I can help out. This is all new to me, but I'll do my best, and it's all so—so interesting."

The speech sounded stilted and too, too sweet, but apparently Rosemary didn't think so; she reached out and touched Erin's cheek in a gesture as affectionate as it was unexpected. "You're a darling. Your mother said you were, but naturally I assumed she was a little prejudiced. ... I was wrong. Just relax, take it easy. I'll send someone up to relieve you soon."

Her departure left the room feeling strangely empty. Erin was beginning to understand, not only why Rosemary was a successful politician, but why she commanded such devotion from her staff. How much of that charm had been calculated? It was alarmingly effective. In less than an hour Rosemary had managed to make her feel as if she really were one of the family—an intimate friend, a confidante. Yet what had she really said? Nothing Erin didn't know, or could not easily have surmised. A graceful apology, some self-deprecating humor, a few casual compliments—and that quick, warm touch on the cheek.

She glanced at Kay, whose mouth had dropped open. From it came a series of sounds that the dignified secretary would indignantly disavow if anyone had accused her of snoring. Erin grinned. Kay's efforts equaled those of her father, and he had been a champion snorer, audible through a closed bedroom door.

She looked around the room wondering how to occupy herself for the next. . . however long it might be. There was no dearth of things to do: a television set, countless books and papers, and even one of the ubiquitous knitting bags on the blanket chest at the foot
of the bed. A folded afghan lay beside it. Erin unfolded it and placed it carefully over the sleeper.

She wandered to the window, feeling like Cinderella as she saw Rosemary sweep down the porch steps on Joe's arm. I have to hand it to her, Erin thought admiringly; when she's in her public persona, she can make even that insipid pink dress look regal. The car was a limousine—hired for the occasion, one presumed. The uniformed driver helped them in, got behind the wheel, and the long black vehicle moved smoothly away. As smoothly as it could, considering the condition of the driveway.

The gray-blue shadow of the house lengthened as Kay continued to snore. Christie emerged into view, got into her car, and drove off. There were several other cars in the parking areas, including Nick's unmistakable old Dodge.

Erin didn't want to turn on the TV, for fear of waking Kay, but as the dusk deepened she ventured to switch on a lamp and, greatly daring, to investigate some of the papers lying around. Newspaper clippings and magazine articles, lists of contributors, notes for speeches . . . She recognized Nick's vigorous sprawling hand, and a neat, precise script that could only be
Jeff
's
—if the theories of orthographers were indeed correct. His ideas were as ordered and as passionless as his handwriting, Erin thought, as she read. A good point, the one he had made about verification of nuclear testing, but there must be a more emphatic way of phrasing it. ...

She was absorbed in the notes when there was a gentle tap on the door. Opening it, Erin put her finger to her lips, but the newcomer—Jeff—only smiled, and said in a normal speaking voice, "Whew, what a racket! I had no idea she snored like that. Sorry to have left you on duty so long; I was talking to a particularly long-winded constituent." He glanced at the papers she had left on the table beside her chair, and his smile broadened. "Couldn't you find anything better to read? You must have been desperately bored."

"Oh, I'm so sorry—maybe I shouldn't have looked at them—"

Jeff's smile shut down behind tight-set lips. "For God's sake, Erin, stop apologizing for everything! You have a perfect right to
read any garbage you find lying out in the open. If I had anything to hide . . ."He stopped, and then said lightly, "You sure don't need me yelling at you, do you? Let's get something to eat. I'm grumpy and I'll bet you're starved as well as bored."

"What about Kay?"

"Time she got up anyway." Jeff bent over Kay and called her
name.

He had to repeat it several times before she stirred and groaned. "Oh, dear . . . What? Who is it? I was resting my eyes. . . . Where's Rosemary?"

"Long gone." Jeff put his arm around her and helped her to sit up. "Supper is ready; do you want to come downstairs, or shall I bring you a tray in your room?"

"Of course I'll come down." Kay yawned widely. Her eyes slid sideways, with an unpleasant suggestion of slyness. She gestured to Jeff, who bent obediently so she could whisper in his ear. "Who's that?" she hissed. "What's she doing here?"

Jeff's brows drew together, but he mastered his surprise and said calmly, "You know Erin. You asked me to bring her here to help you—"

"You don't have to tell me who she is. She's Roy Hartsock's little girl. I dreamed about her. The strangest dream . . . You shouldn't have let me sleep so long. I never take naps. '

She swung her feet onto the floor and stood up. Jeff tried to take her arm, but she shook him off. "I wish you'd stop treating me like an invalid. I'm just a little groggy from sleep, that's all. Perfectly normal. No, wait, Jeff, I have to clean up this mess before I go downstairs. Rosemary's room—"

"I'll do it," Erin said. "You go ahead."

She had already picked up after Rosemary; there was nothing left to do but smooth the rumpled spread and fold the afghan, but she was glad of a few moments alone. What was the matter with everyone? First Jeff's outburst, so uncharacteristic of him, even though he had apologized with the grace only he could employ; then Kay's memory lapse. There had to be something seriously wrong with her. Maybe, Erin thought more optimistically, it was only the medication she was taking. Sometimes drugs affected people in odd, unexpected ways.

When she left the room she heard Kay's voice from the hall below. It was as brisk and peremptory as ever. Whatever the cause of her confusion, the spells didn't last long.

The commons room, as she had learned to call it, was deserted except for Jeff and Kay, who had entered just before her. The door to the kitchen was open; Erin heard voices, first Nick's, raised in poignant protest, followed by a woman's rich laughter.

"Is Nick still here?" Kay asked, lowering herself carefully onto the sofa.

"Is the Pope Catholic?" Jeff's tone was caustic. "He's always here when it's time to eat."

Kay reached for the knitting bag, and then made a sound that, in another woman, would have shaped itself into a hearty "damn." "This is driving me crazy. I can't even . . . Erin, do you know how to knit?"

Erin decided it was time to draw the line. Politely but firmly she said, "I used to, but I've forgotten everything except the basic stitches. I certainly couldn't do anything as complicated as that."

"This is a very simple pattern," Kay insisted. "That's why I selected it; we all work on it from time to time. Rosemary agrees with me that it's relaxing and therapeutic."

Jeff came to the rescue. "Cut it out, Kay. Since when has knitting been one of the job requirements around here? We
don't
all work on the cursed thing. Erin, you should have heard Joe when Kay suggested he learn to knit. Come to think of it, I'm glad you didn't hear him. Susceptible as I am to her charm, I too have thus far resisted the opportunity to broaden my skills. In fact, the only sucker in the crowd is—voila, he comes."

"Hard upon his hour," Nick agreed. "What am I being accused of now? Ah, my adored one." He rushed at Kay. "I would have been at your side and wakened you with a kiss, but this jealous swine prevented me. How are you feeling, gorgeous?'

Kay's tight lips curved into a smile. "Don't you dare touch me, Nick. You don't know your own strength; it's like being hugged by a gorilla."

Arms ostentatiously behind him, Nick leaned over her and gave her a delicate peck on the cheek. "Only your fragile condition keeps me from crushing you in a passionate embrace. Hi, Erin. "

"Hi."