The President's Daughter (2 page)

CHAPTER TWO

Simon Keller handed over the keys to his vintage Ford Mustang to the valet, then climbed the steps to the trendy restaurant that overlooked Baltimore’s Inner Harbor. His curiosity piqued by an invitation to lunch with his favorite former college professor, Simon had been more than happy to make the drive across the Chesapeake to meet with Dr. Philip Norton. Onetime head of the journalism department at Georgetown University. Onetime White House press secretary.

It had been an unexpected pleasure, Simon reflected, running into his old journalism professor three weeks ago at the wedding of a classmate, after having lost touch for the last year or so. Time in which Simon’s life had changed as surely as had Philip Norton’s.

The maître d’ led Simon to the table where Norton sat admiring the sweeping view of the harbor where water the color of dull pewter crested in whitecapped waves and a few hearty souls braved the winter winds for an afternoon sail.

“Philip.” Simon smiled at the aging but still handsome slightly balding man who turned and leaned his tall frame half out of his seat to extend a hand in greeting. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

“Not at all, Simon. I was just admiring the courage of the skipper of that small sailboat.” Norton gestured toward the water. “Those little yellow and red and white flags seem to lend it a bit of bravado, don’t you think, considering the forecast?”

“I missed the forecast, but judging from the look of those clouds and given the fact that the temperature has been dropping all morning, I’d say we were in for a storm.” Simon accepted the menu that was handed to him by a young waiter.

“While driving up from D.C., I heard that we could expect another half foot of snow, to begin sometime this afternoon.” Norton sipped at his water, then set the glass down carefully and smiled. “I’m hoping to get back to the city before it starts.”

“In that case, maybe we should order now,” Simon suggested.

“I heartily recommend the crab cakes,” Norton noted. “They’re a specialty here.”

“Crab cakes have become a staple of my diet, since I live so close to the bay. I think I’ll have a salad and the steak sandwich this time around.” Simon smiled and folded his menu, handing it to the waiter who had appeared to take their orders and to bring Norton a previously requested cup of tea.

Simon watched his old mentor’s eyes as they followed the efforts of the small boat to fight back against the wind, and wondered for perhaps the tenth time what had prompted Norton’s call. He wasn’t the sort of man given to idle socializing. His contacting Simon had a point, and Simon was intrigued by what that point might be.

Finally, Norton turned and said, “How are your folks? Still farming?”

“Still farming.” Simon smiled. “Still doing hand-to-hand combat with those northern Iowa winters.”

“Any thoughts of going back someday?”

“Only for Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Mother’s Day. The family farm is in the capable hands of my father and my brother. Steven never wanted to do anything but farm. I knew by the time I was eight that I didn’t have a feel for it.”

“Then your family is lucky to have Steven to carry on the family business.” Norton folded his arms, one over the other, and leaned forward slightly. “So. Tell me how that book of yours is coming along.”

“Still working on it.”

“Have you been able to find an agent?”

“Still working on that, too.” Simon shrugged.

“It’s a difficult business, publishing.”

“Are you speaking as an author or as a publisher?”

“Both, actually.” Norton smiled.

“Who’s your agent?” Simon asked, one side of his mouth edging into a half grin.

Norton laughed. “Actually, I do have an agent. I’ve only published a few, very select works of my own through Brookes Press.”

Simon raised an eyebrow. “What would be the point of owning a publishing company if you’re not going to publish your own books?”

“Brookes has the reputation—well earned, I am proud to say—of publishing only top-rate nonfiction. Last year’s bestseller of former U.S. Supreme Court Justice Howard Rensel, for example.” Norton stirred his tea. “Several years ago, I wrote a novel. I felt at the time that, had I published the book myself, it would have been viewed as unnecessarily self-indulgent. Which, in truth, it would have been. I was afraid of undermining the reputation that I’d worked for over the years as publisher of a small independent press. The last thing I wanted was for Brookes to be thought of as a vanity press. So I took my novel elsewhere.”

“Was it published?”

“No, it was not. Actually, I have the distinction of having been rejected by every major publishing house in New York.” Norton looked momentarily amused, then sobered. “We did, however, publish a small volume of poems my wife had written shortly before her death. They were damned good poems, and I forgave myself that bit of indulgence because they were so damned good. Elisa deserved to have those poems published.”

The death of Philip Norton’s wife, the junior senator from New Jersey, several years earlier had been ruled a suicide. Simon knew that Norton never believed it. He could not accept that his beloved Elisa had put a gun to her head and pulled the trigger, regardless of the assurances of law enforcement officers that no evidence had been found to the contrary.

Norton’s eyes drifted, then focused on the waiter who approached with a smile on his face and a salad plate in each hand.

“It’s tough to sell a first book, especially one such as yours, that deals with a controversial topic,” Norton continued after he and Simon had been served and the waiter turned his attention to the next table. “Especially one without corroboration. Some publishers might be afraid of being sued, should the story be challenged.”

“You mean, should the story be challenged and should the author refuse to reveal his confidential sources.”

“Yes. That’s exactly what I mean.” Norton met Simon’s eyes from across the table. “And I am assuming that you are still unwilling to reveal yours.”

“You assume correctly.” Simon leaned back in his chair. “I quit my job at the
Washington Press
rather than reveal my sources on that story. I will always do everything I can to protect them.”

“It must have been very difficult to have walked away from the newspaper,” Norton noted.

“I could not work for a paper that demanded disclosure—even to their legal department—of the identity of some poor sucker who was putting his life on the line by talking to me.” Simon’s eyes reflected the same dark pewter as the bay. “Or an editor who failed to back me up.”

“I admire your sticking to principal, Simon, however difficult it might make life for you at times. But tell me, then, if I might ask, what are you doing for work?”

“Right now, I’m working on my book.” Simon shifted slightly in his seat.

“Anything that’s generating a little income?”

“Not at the moment.” The fact was that he was pretty close to the end of his savings, a fact that Simon knew he’d have to deal with in the very near future.

Both men picked at their salads for a long moment; then Norton said, “I have a proposal I’d like to run past you.”

“A proposal?”

“For a book that I have in mind. One I’d very much like to see written.”

Simon looked up from his plate of greens, wondering where this might lead.

“Simon, what do you know about Graham Hayward?”

“The late President?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I know that he’s considered by some to be one of the great presidents of the twentieth century. That he had the reputation of being totally honest and ethical.” Here Simon smiled and added, “As honest and ethical as any man with so much power could be, I suppose. And I know that, back in the seventies, when he was in office, you were his press secretary before you taught at Georgetown.”

“And very proud to be. Graham Hayward was a man who was never touched by scandal. As far as I know, he kept his promise to never lie to the American people. Hayward set the moral standard that subsequent occupants of the White House have never been able to live up to.”

“How did you meet him?”

“We were both from Rhode Island, both attended Brown, as you may know, though he was several years ahead of me. Our paths crossed many, many times over the years. I supported him in every way I could. I was thrilled to be able to work with him in the White House. Those days were some of the best of my life.”

Norton sipped at his tea. “I suppose you’re wondering where this is leading and what it might have to do with you.”

“Yes.”

Both men paused as the waiter placed the barely touched salads to one side to make room for their entrées.

“President Hayward’s son is being groomed to run in the next election; are you aware of that?”

“I’d heard some talk.”

“He’s the perfect choice. Mind you, I’ve known young Gray since he was a boy. He’s his father all over again. So often that doesn’t happen, you know. All too often, the apple falls far from the tree.” Norton shook his head. “But not in this case. Gray is every bit his father’s son. He’ll make a fine candidate. A fine President.”

“I’ve heard he’s made a name for himself as a congressman. He’s in his, what, third term?”

“Third, yes. He’s done an excellent job on the Hill. The party’s been working with him over the past few years, cultivating his image. You see him at least once a week with his wife, his children, often his widowed mother, at his side. Always, the family together, rock solid. The party honchos know they have a winner in this young man, Simon.”

“You were going to tell me what this had to do with me.” Simon was becoming antsy for the point to be reached. He couldn’t possibly imagine what it might be.

“In an effort to . . . let’s say, lay the groundwork for young Gray’s run for the White House, I’d like to do a new biography of Graham Senior. Something that would bring him—and his accomplishments—back into the minds and hearts of the American people.”

“And you’re planning on publishing this book yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Isn’t that just a little self-indulgent?” Simon heard himself say before tact kicked in, and he added, “I mean, you were just saying how you disliked using Brookes Press for personal reasons. If I understood you correctly.”

“Oh, you understood perfectly. I did say—and mean—exactly that.” Norton smiled to himself, pleased that Simon had not missed the point. “But I prefer to think of this book as being less a vanity effort than a timely exercise. It’s the right time to do such a book. Someone will do it, sooner or later. I’d like to be that someone, and I’d like to do it sooner rather than later.”

Simon was buttering a roll, still wondering what all this had to do with him, when Norton added, “And I’d like you to write the book.”

“What?” Simon put the knife down. “You want me to . . .”

“Write a biography of Graham Hayward.”

“Why?” Simon’s roll sat forgotten on the side of the plate.

“Because I want the book done right and I know I can trust you to do the job the way it needs to be done. After all, I’m not totally unfamiliar with your writing, you know. All those papers you wrote for me at Georgetown.” Norton grinned. “All those pieces you wrote for the
Washington Press.
You’ve made quite a name for yourself.”

Norton studied Simon’s face, then shifted to another tactic.

“I know that this would mean having to put your own book aside for a time. But if the Hayward book does well, it would certainly open doors for you. I think it goes without saying that Brookes Press would be first in line to see the finished product.”

“Tell me what your interest is in this biography. Besides the obvious, that Hayward was your friend and, at one time, your boss.”

“Simon, I do believe—
sincerely
believe—that young Graham can, that he will, bring integrity back into our government. I want to see that happen. I believe that he is the best person on the political scene today to do that. I believe that he can win. He’s extremely intelligent, tough, energetic, handsome—he’s the future.”

“And you think that by reminding the public of just how good things were under the father, those good feelings will just flow over to the son.”

“That’s correct.”

“A bit manipulative on your part, wouldn’t you say?” Simon asked.

Norton chuckled. It was no less than he’d expected from his old student. “As I said, I believe that the time is ripe for someone to write this book. And someone will, sooner or later. I want that someone to be you, and I want it to be now.” He hesitated momentarily when the waiter appeared with the check, which he took. “Manipulation would be if we were to present a scoundrel as a saint. Everyone knows what kind of man Graham Senior was.”

“No dirt under the carpet, no skeletons in some long-hidden closet?”

“None. I’m not looking for a gossipy exposé. There is no gossip. The man’s accomplishments speak for themselves. You’ll talk to the family; you’ll talk to a few friends. . . .” Norton watched the younger man’s face.