The Governor's Lady (17 page)

A final shake and smile, and Woodrow turned his prey loose and cast about for another. It would go on this way a bit longer, and then he would sense the party was winding down and come looking for her. He would give her a quick kiss and put his arm around her, then turn his beam on her for a while.

“He’s good at that,” she heard, and turned to see that someone was taking a seat beside her on the bench, holding two cups of beer. He offered one, and reflexively she took it. Then his hand. “Pickett Lanier.”

“I know,” she said. “I’m in your Intro to Marketing class.”

“I know,” he said.

He was tall, trim, angular, with features that stopped just short of being too sharp—lively, deep hazel eyes, high forehead, brown hair a bit longish at the sides and back, drifting over his ears and curling at his collar. He had a resonant voice and an earnestness in front of her class. It was his first year on the faculty, and he had told his students he was nearly finished with his dissertation.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“Date with a faculty member. That’s her over there in that group your date just latched onto.”

Cooper picked her out. She was mildly attractive, brunette hair pulled back in a ponytail, wire-rim glasses propped on top of her head. “Does she need those? The glasses?”

“Interesting you should ask. No, not really. She’s junior faculty, like me, hasn’t been around long enough to pontificate to graduate students. I think the glasses are part of the image.”

“What image is that?”

“Somebody to contend with, at least eventually. Like Mr. Bannister.”

“Do you know Mr. Bannister?”

“Only by reputation.”

“And what’s that?”

“Someone to contend with.”

“In what way?”

He laughed. “As someone potentially formidable. Do you think he’s formidable?”

She shifted on the bench and looked down at the beer cup in her hand. “Is this proper? Plying students with beer?”

“Of course. You’re twenty-one, we’re not in class, I have no hidden agenda.”

“How do you know I’m twenty-one?”

“I looked it up.”

A slight flush. “Who gave you permission to go poking around in my records?”

His eyebrows shot up. “Hey, nice.”

“What do you mean?”

“You just told me off. Good for you. Some of my female students, totally without my intending them to, stammer and simper when I speak to them.”

“I don’t see anything to stammer or simper about.”

He smiled. “Sorry if I offended you in any way.”

“Apology accepted.”

“Your beer’s getting warm.”

She handed it back to him. “Thanks, but I’ll pass.”

He took the cup, set it on the bench beside him, sipped from his own, and gave her a long look. “What are you doing in an introductory marketing class? Most of the others are freshmen.”

“I’m a journalism major. A journalist ought to know at least a little something about supply and demand. And as you’ve explained,
marketing is creating demand so somebody can supply it and make money. Crass, but that’s the way things are.”

“The great capitalist experiment. Do you like the class?”

“The material is as boring as dishwater.”

“You’ve got a solid A so far.”

“Useful things can be boring, Mr. Lanier. I have a pretty good grasp of the law of supply and demand, so now I’m ready to get it over with and get on with things that aren’t so boring.”

“Fair enough. How about the lectures? Give me an unbiased student evaluation.”

She looked away for a moment, searched for Woodrow, spotted him at a swing set giving one of the faculty kids a push while chatting away with the kid’s mother. She turned back. “If you’re fishing for a compliment, I’ll oblige. The class is okay. You explain things so I can understand. The freshman girls think you’re a hunk. They’re the ones who stammer and simper, right? Should I go on?”

His smile turned to a grin. “I
wasn’t
fishing for a compliment, but I’ll take it.”

She stood. “You’re welcome. Thanks for the offer of the beer.”

“If not beer, how about coffee?”

“It’s too hot for coffee.”

“I don’t mean now.”

“No,” she said firmly.

He peered up at her. “I’m a faculty member, you’re a student.”

“That’s right.”

“You wouldn’t want to get me in trouble.”

“I wouldn’t think of it.”

And then Woodrow was at her elbow, and Pickett Lanier was standing, offering his hand, beating Woodrow to the punch.

“Pickett Lanier,” he said.

“My marketing professor,” Cooper said.

“Right. Woodrow Bannister. Pleased to meet you.” Woodrow reached for Lanier’s elbow with his free hand, ready to home in on a fresh target.

Lanier dropped the handshake, crossed his arms nonchalantly over his chest, and leaned back ever so slightly. “Miss Spainhour and I were just talking about the law of supply and demand.” He turned to Cooper, winked. “It’s pretty boring stuff.” He offered his hand, and she took it. “Well, see you in class.”

She nodded. He turned and headed toward his date. She glanced at Woodrow, saw the odd look on his face, and realized what it was. He had failed to politick Pickett Lanier.

She was cleaning out her apartment, the accumulated junk from four years of school, several layers of dust.
The place ought to look like a working girl lived here
, she thought,
not a student slob
. The window air conditioner was on the fritz, all the windows open. Sweat dripped into her eyes and down the collar of the old shirt of Woodrow’s she was wearing over shorts. The phone. She ignored it for several rings. She didn’t want to talk to Woodrow right now, and for sure didn’t want him seeing her like this. She finally picked it up.

“Okay, finals are over, you’re no longer a student, no problem with having a cup of coffee with a faculty member.”

“No thank you.”

“Or dinner.”

“Again, no thanks.”

“I know this great little place upriver. It doesn’t look like much, but it has the best barbecue you ever tasted. Hush puppies, coleslaw, baked beans, bottomless iced tea. And it has a pretty good band some nights.”

“Mr. Lanier—”

“Pickett.”

“Mr. Lanier, it’s nice of you to call, but …”

“Mr. Bannister?”

“That’s right.”

“Word around campus is you’re practically engaged.”

She didn’t try to hide the irritation. “Don’t you have enough to do with your faculty responsibilities without having time to gossip?”

“I said practically, not completely. Is that right?”

“Look—”

“It’s not like I’m an older man. You’re twenty-one, I’m twenty-five. We’re both adults, both gainfully employed.”

“What do you know about my employment?”

“The editor of the paper was a couple years ahead of me in high school.”

She had an entry-level job at the local daily. The chair of the Journalism Department had heard about the opening and urged her to apply. Unless, of course, she wanted something in one of the larger cities, maybe even at the capital
Dispatch
. With her political connections and all … She had told him—and the editor—she wasn’t the least bit interested in using her connections.

“So you and my new boss have been passing my personal information back and forth?”

“Of course not. He just mentioned he’d hired you. He thinks you’ve got talent, even if you’re too feisty.”

“Feisty?”

“I read the student newspaper. You seem to enjoy picking fights.”

“I say what I think.”

“Obviously.”

“Anyway, I haven’t written my first word for your editor friend yet.”

“Don’t sell yourself short.”

“I don’t. Mr. Lanier—”

“Pickett.”

“I’m busy.” She didn’t need to offer an explanation but found herself doing it. “I’m cleaning my apartment. I’m hot, tired, dirty, and real short on patience.”

“I should be cleaning my place, too. If you saw it, you’d think I’m a bohemian. But I’m not, really.”

“Have a good day.” She hung up.

The phone rang again within seconds. She picked it up with a jerk. “Look—”

“I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye.”

“Mr. Lanier, I hope you won’t call again.”

“But I might. Goodbye for now.”

She sat for a moment, annoyed she had wasted time on the phone when she had so much to do. She looked over the wreck she had made of the apartment. Books, magazines, class notes strewn about, a stack of clothes for Goodwill, an antique typewriter, cracked dishes. It was oppressively hot. She went to the bathroom, washed her face, put a cool washcloth on the back of her neck. She got a beer from the refrigerator, drank half of it, called Woodrow.

“What are you doing?”

“Writing notes,” he said. “Folks I met at the picnic.”

It must have taken laborious research in the campus directory—addresses, titles to go with the names he had set to memory. Woodrow was good with names, and to help his memory he kept a small notepad in a rear pants pocket.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Cleaning.”

“Should I come over?”

“No, Woodrow. Do your notes.”

She finished her beer and thought about Woodrow at his desk, choosing his words carefully, just enough to let his new contacts know
they had made an impression, and to make sure he had. The personal touch, the attention to detail—all part of Woodrow’s plan.

Tonight, they would have a quiet dinner at his apartment—which would be neat, clean, everything in order, unlike the chaos that was hers—talk, make love. He would bring her back to her place, go home to his. He was leaving early in the morning to join Cleve’s campaign full-time, running a regional office downstate. Some of the older heads in the campaign thought he was far too young, at twenty-three, for that kind of responsibility, but Mickey had anointed him, and nobody was crossing Mickey. The campaign was in high gear—primary in August, general election in November. Both parties had stout candidates, but the smart money was on Cleve Spainhour. There seemed almost an inevitability about it.

She thought, suddenly and unwillingly, of Pickett Lanier. His calls were certainly irksome, but she recalled something he said: “Word around campus is you’re practically engaged.” The notion of people talking about her rankled, an oblique invasion of sorts. But gossip aside, was he right?
Were
she and Woodrow practically engaged, at least in other people’s eyes? Perhaps, but not in hers. She was trying to focus on the next moment in her own life. The moment after that might include Woodrow, but for now she was trying to keep the thought of it at bay. She was not practically engaged in anything so much as the notion of
not
being practically engaged.

And then, before she rose and resumed her cleaning, one other thought:
Pickett Lanier might believe the gossip—that we’re practically engaged—but he called anyway. Cheeky bastard
.

TEN

Friday, end of her first week on the job, covering a meeting of the Water and Electric Board, a droning debate over whether to install a rebuilt carburetor on a city truck or spring for a new one. Work had been a series of stories ranging from the inane to the mundane. An overturned truckload of chickens, a rambling speech by the mayor to the Rotary Club, interminable meetings of various governmental bodies, a feature story on a woman who made art objects out of gourds. Rookie stuff, the assignments experienced reporters tried to avoid.

”When are you gonna let me do something worth a damn?” she asked the editor.

He gave her a slow smile. “Cooper, I may one day turn you loose on the School Board, or maybe the police beat. But not yet. Pay your dues, bide your time. Besides, the police chief is a horse’s ass, and knowing you, a fistfight might ensue.”

So she watched and listened and tried to absorb as much as she could about newspapering in the real world. She was busy. Woodrow was away. He hadn’t called, and thankfully neither had Pickett Lanier. She had given neither of them anything but fleeting thought.

A tap on her shoulder, a woman from the Town Clerk’s Office. “Miss Spainhour? The paper said you should call right away.”

Mickey, voice strained, sounding like someone a continent away: “Cooper, Cleve’s in the hospital.”

“What? Why?”

“He collapsed while he was getting dressed. Fate Wilmer’s with him. I’m waiting to hear something.”

It took three hours to drive home to the upstate. At first, her mind was roiling with questions, uncertainties, fears. She had seen Cleve a week ago at graduation, when he had given the commencement address and been awarded an honorary degree that caused public controversy, criticism from a primary opponent who accused the university of providing Cleve an unfair pulpit. Cleve had considered declining but agreed to go through with it when Cooper insisted. After he accepted his degree, he presented hers with a hug and kiss, and they posed briefly for the news cameras. His voice was strong, his color good, his smile brilliant. He was tired at the end of the busy day, but not unusually so. He had lost a little weight, which he attributed to the grind of the campaign. And then she had talked with him by phone yesterday. He sounded fine, the campaign going well. And he had been in touch again with a contractor about building the fishpond. A surveyor would be on site next week. Cooper drove on, letting her mind go blank except for what kept echoing in her head:
It will be all right. It has to be all right
.