Unfinished Business (8 page)

Mark opened his mouth to protest; but before he could speak, Erica Johnson's face rose in his mind and the feeling swept over him again—the same feeling he'd had standing next to her in the classroom, when she'd had that happy, proud smile on her face and every nerve in his body had wanted nothing more than to gather her into his arms and kiss her until neither one of them could breathe.

Own your shit
. Is that what Chase had said? “I don't know if it's all that,” he said slowly. “But I'll admit
there's something there.” Mark raised his eyes to his friend's face and sighed, almost grateful to have the weird feelings churning inside him out on the table. “Let's just assume,” he continued tentatively, “for the sake of argument, that you're right. That there's more between me and Erica than just politics.” He skewered his longtime friend with his gaze. “Is it going to be a problem?”

Chase shook his head. “Not for me. I'm pretty sure Bitsi's going to hate it, though. Probably already does. For reasons both personal and professional. After that”—he shrugged his shoulders and rubbed the spot—“I don't know. Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters,” Mark grumbled. “We've just started our work here in Washington. I don't want to lose my seat with the job half done.”

“Forget the politics.” Chase swept the campaign, the election and all of Capitol Hill aside with a brush of his hand. He leaned close to Mark, close enough that Mark could smell the bitter malt of Dickey Joe's on his breath. “Does it matter?”

Mark considered the man carefully, analyzing his meaning in every sense of the phrase.

“No, it doesn't matter,” he replied. “It doesn't matter except,” he said, sighing, “it's been so long, Chase. I'm out of practice with this kind of thing. I mean, I know how to flirt, to work the angles when I need to, but…” He shook his head. “I'm not sure I know how to talk to a woman anymore.” He looked into his friend's eyes again. “Not when it matters. Not about things that matter.”

Chase nodded. “I know what you mean. But it's got to be like riding a bicycle. Or at least like falling off one, right?” He chortled a little at his joke and rubbed the spot. “Don't worry about it, Mark. Think before you open that big trap of yours and you'll find the
words.”

Mark quirked an eyebrow at him. “And the politics?”

“That might be tough. Especially given the race differences. But that's a cheap target, and I got to think even Malloy's too sophisticated for that. And then there's the fact that you can count on Erica to disagree with every word you say.” He shrugged. “But there are other couples in Washington who belong to different parties. There are definitely a few negative scenarios, but it's still a good thing, in my opinion.”

“How so?”

“Because, at the end of the day, you're still a
man
, Mark. Politics and government offices aside, if it's a good thing for
you
, it's good.” His friend's muddy brown eyes flickered over him. “You've been alone too long, Mark.”

Mark nodded, feeling the truth of the words. “I can say the same for you, buddy.”

Chase grinned. “Don't worry about me. I'm working on it.”

Working on it
? This was news. Mark lifted an eyebrow for the follow-up, but was interrupted by Dr. Salter's brusque, “All done.”

He looked down at her and was surprised to find his knee wrapped tight in bandages and bolstered by a couple of ice packs.

“Stay off it,” the woman barked, barely looking at him as she put her implements away. “Crutches tomorrow. You should be able to put some weight on it again by Friday. But take it easy.”

Mark opened his mouth to thank her, but the woman waved her hand to silence him. “And for what it's worth, speaking strictly as your physician, if you like this woman, you should go for it, and to hell with what anyone says,” she continued, her dark eyes
flashing with sudden tumultuous emotion. “Studies have shown that people in solid relationships experience less pain from chronic conditions like yours than their unattached counterparts, Senator. And if I may be so bold”—she hesitated—“I think a woman like Johnson is
exactly
what you need.”

And then the impossible happened: The grim Dr. Salter's lips curved upward and parted into the sunniest smile Mark had every seen.

“Good night,” she murmured, and gathered her things and let herself out before Mark could decipher the meaning of either the words or the smile.

“How's the ear?” Angelique looked up from her laptop and squinted in Erica's direction.

Automatically Erica reached up to caress the few stitches notched into her lobe. “Fine,” she mumbled, padding into the kitchen to pour herself a cup of coffee. “You're up early.”

“Yep.” Angelique nodded. “You've inspired me.”

Erica had gotten back to the row house she and Angelique shared under her own power and in her own car, in spite of Newman's offers of everything from a cab to a personal escort. The house clung to the edges of the newly gentrified Capitol Hill by a thread, but was without a doubt the worst house on the block. Left to Angelique by her elderly parents when they passed away a few years before, the place had been in serious disrepair. Now, except for the political signs littering the postage stamp of a lawn, the place was looking downright uninhabitable.

Erica focused her attention on her friend. She wore a purple silk do-rag on her head, and her braids hung long and loose beneath it. She'd taken out her contacts, and with her glasses and lack of makeup, she looked
every one of her thirty-four years. Erica sighed, remembering what she'd read somewhere about the high number of single black professional women, looking for a brother who could fill all the boxes on their checklist—and finding the pickings to be extremely thin.

“Yep, you've inspired me,” Angelique repeated, giving her mouse a final click and pushing the laptop off her knees. “Watching you and that white boy has worn down the last of my resistance,” she continued as if Erica had asked. “Last night, I made me a profile on one of those interracial dating sites. Then I went into their chat room and I already made a friend. His screen name is Mr. Politics D.C., only it's all consonants. MRPLTKSDC. I almost didn't get it, at first.”

“You what?” Erica stared at her, her mouth open in shock.

“You heard me!” Angelique grinned a big, happy grin that seemed a little much for 4:30 a.m. “Shoot, if
you
can get you a white man, I know I can, too! Maybe one with a little
money
…”

Erica shook her head. There were so many things wrong with that statement, she hardly knew where to begin. “For the millionth time,” she muttered, “he's not my man. I don't even like him.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Angelique watched as Erica unplugged the toaster before plugging in the coffeepot, to keep the home's old electric wires from shorting. Erica handed her the empty carafe and made sure she abandoned the computer long enough to add some water to it before turning away to pull fresh Fair Trade beans from the refrigerator. The things were outrageously expensive—she could have bought a two-gallon drum of regular ground coffee from the grocery store for the same price—but it felt good to know that the farmers in Africa and South America were paid a living wage.

Even if she and Angelique were about to go broke.

“You look like you haven't slept at all,” Angelique said over the running water. “Bad dreams?”

Erica shrugged. “Sort of.”

“About the robbery, or about Newman?” Angelique's tone was sly, like she knew the remark would get something going.

“Neither,” Erica lied. “It's hot back there,” she said, gesturing with her head toward the short corridor where the bedrooms lay. “Don't you think it's hot back there?”

“Oh, it's hot all right.” Angelique's lips curved into that little smile she'd been giving Erica every other minute since they'd first encountered one Senator Mark Newman. Erica knew what was coming next. “Or at least, I believe you're hot,” she teased. “Hot for a certain somebody.”

“For the last time, I am not,” Erica grumbled, feeling irritated by the mere mention of the man, and even more irritated by the fact that he had indeed been dancing in her dreams again. And worse, now she had the feeling like she had made a critical error. Like in a moment of weakness—after all, she'd sat on his lap and clung to him like a life raft, for Heaven's sake—she might have given him the impression that she might like him a tiny bit.

“Tell the truth, girl,” Angelique was saying, as though she'd read Erica's mind. “He's not as bad as you thought he'd be. Admit it!”

Erica considered.

“Okay,” she said at last. “You're right.”

“I knew it!” Angelique exclaimed. “I knew it!”

“He's not the Antichrist. He's more like the man possessed by legions of demons. You remember that Bible story?”

Angelique frowned. “I don't get you, Erica,” she said, sliding the carafe full of water across the counter and seating herself on the small kitchen's lone stool. She popped her laptop open and Erica heard her start clicking away again, at least until the roar of the coffee grinder drowned her out.

“I think you should take a look at this,” she said, sliding the computer across the counter.

“And this, and this…”

“I get it,” Erica muttered rubbing her forehead. “The robbery is all over the news. Newman's a hero. Again. Whoopee. I'm sure he and that awful media person of his are thrilled.”

Angelique eyed her. “What do you know about him, really?” she asked in the slow, considering voice that meant she'd been thinking. Again. “Look, I know you know how he voted on education policy. And I know you know his stance on the war. But what do you know about
him
? As a man.”

Erica frowned. “He told my class he grew up poor. Really poor,” she said, considering his background. “And he told me that his wife died.”

“When?” Angelique asked. “How?”

“She was shot,” Erica answered. “But I don't know when.”

Angelique had already bent her neck to the computer again and was typing furiously. “Okay…of course there's the Senate bio. It's not going to give us the kind of information we really want, but I'll save it, anyway. You can look it over later. And there's a bunch of newspaper articles—hundreds of them, it looks like.” She frowned. “But a lot of them are about the same things: his war injury, his Senate bid…”

Erica crept around the small counter until she could see the screen over Angelique's shoulder. The search
engine had revealed a long list of “hits”: mostly newspaper articles, a few dating back over a decade.

“Wait a minute,” Angelique muttered, scrolling down to an entry halfway down the list. “Here.”

With a single click of her mouse, they were directed to an archived newspaper story with the headline Freshman Senator's Wife Killed in Robbery Attempt.

Erica and Angelique read silently. The article chronicled the life of Katharine Miltke Newman, who had died only three years earlier. She and her husband of twelve years, said the story, had been high-school sweethearts. She'd been killed intervening when three teenagers had tried to rob an old man leaving a grocery store. Accompanying the words was a picture of a woman with a gentle smile and a headful of dark, 1980s-style big hair.

“That must be an old picture,” Angelique observed, closing the file and selecting another article. This one featured photos of a very young Mark Newman in a crisp military uniform, both legs strong and whole, standing alongside the big-haired woman. He was grinning from ear to ear and looking annoyingly pleased with himself.

“Before Gulf One, I guess,” Erica murmured.

“Yeah,” Angelique said quietly. “You can really see the difference, can't you?”

“Well, it's pretty obvious,” Erica agreed. “Now he has to use that cane.”

Angelique's face swung toward her in astonishment. “Is that the only difference you see?” she asked with a frown. “Nothing else?”

“Well, he's older of course,” Erica added quickly. “But we're all older.”

“Older? That's
it
?” Angelique sounded mildly disgusted. She turned to the computer again and with a
few strokes had located a more recent photo of Newman. She created a split-screen effect so that the two versions of the man appeared side by side. She gestured toward the screen again. “You don't see it?” She brushed a finger over the on-screen image, touching the mouth and eyes. “Here and here?”

Erica studied the photographs carefully.

“I don't know what you want me to see,” she said at last. “He looks older. He's got a cane…What?” she stared at Angelique, waiting for enlightenment. “What do you see?”

Angelique shook her head. “Man, this is incredible,” she muttered under her breath. Then, without a word, she stood up, the stool scraping against the old linoleum. “I don't understand you, Erica.”

“What?” Erica repeated in genuine confusion.

“You fight so hard for everyone else's pain: the Sudanese refugees, migrant workers in El Salvador, Indonesian children working in sweatshops—the list of your causes goes on and on.” She shook her head again. “But you've got this guy cast in such a narrow little role, you won't even let him have his own pain.”

“The Mark Newmans of the world don't feel that kind of pain, Angelique,” Erica scoffed. “They don't feel anything. They're too full of themselves.”

Angelique stared at her in sad resignation. “I guess you have to see it that way. Because if you could see his pain, then he'd be human, and you'd have to feel bad for him, too—even though he supports the war, voted for the Other Guy, and is a card-carrying whack job, right?” But before Erica could answer, she continued with, “I'm going to get a shower and get dressed. Thank God tomorrow's Friday, right?” She shuffled toward the door. “And don't forget to clean
your mail out of the bowl,” she added over her shoulder, referring to the wide decorative bowl they kept on the little table in the foyer for this purpose. “It's overflowing.” Then she was gone.

Erica frowned after her and then slid onto the vacant stool, staring down at the man's images on the computer screen. She studied Mark Newman's handsome face, both now and then. He was obviously extremely happy in the earlier photo, while the second looked like some kind of official shot and his face was set into an unsmiling mask. There was more gray in the hair, there were more lines in the face and, of course, a different expression crimped those thin lips. Erica couldn't be sure she saw anything in Mark Newman's face. Anything beyond his own certainty that he was the center of the universe.

But last night…

She recalled the man's expression in an instant. Sure, she'd seen that smug smirk and this grim empty look—more times than she cared to count. But twice, his face had done something she hadn't expected. The first when he'd referenced his late wife. “My Katharine,” he'd called her, with a look of such sudden gentleness the woman's loss seemed almost overwhelmingly fresh.

And again, when she'd found himself in his arms after the robbery. The way he seemed to be contemplating her lips at the very instant she was considering tasting his.

I'm losing it
, Erica thought, touching her ear.
That bullet must have done more damage than I thought.

Bugged by Angelique's words, she turned her attention to Katharine Newman's face instead.
What must it have been like for this woman to be married to this annoying, obnoxious man?
she wondered, staring at the woman's contented smile. Was she as phony
and plastic and full of herself as he was? Was she some kind of female version of the same whack-job reasoning that Newman espoused? As his wife, did she walk two steps behind him and defer to him in all matters, like Erica had heard of women doing in some places?

Or maybe…

Maybe she'd liked the protected feeling of being in his arms.

Maybe she'd liked the sound of his laughter or the challenge of matching wits with him?

Maybe he made her silly and giddy and happy and frustrated and annoyed and…

“Tell me,” Erica demanded, staring hard at Katharine Newman's smiling face.

But of course the old photograph remained silent, and the two of them just kept grinning up at her, frozen in their happiness.

Erica turned her attention to the grim, unsmiling photograph from the senator's official bio. “Tell me,” she demanded again. But instead of an answer, she got ice blue eyes and the silent treatment. She read in the face the iron will of a man who either knew no pain or wasn't about to admit to it.

“This is stupid,” she said aloud to the empty kitchen and pushed the computer away. Instead of contemplating Newman, she grabbed a mug from the cabinet and poured herself a cup of coffee, doctored it up with a splash of hazelnut-flavored cream and carried it with her through the house to the foyer.

The bowl was indeed full—only not just with Erica's stuff as Angelique's comments had led her to believe.

“Bamboozled again,” Erica muttered, beginning the job of sorting through whose mail was whose and what mail was what. She had a pretty decent pile with
Angelique's name on it when she heard the sound of the mail slot and the
whoosh
of an envelope as it sailed through the opening.

Erica turned. A little shot of the cool morning air penetrated the space around her, giving the moment an ominous creepiness.

Especially since a solitary plain white envelope now lay on the old hardwood floor.

“I know the post office isn't delivering this early,” Erica muttered, bending to pick it up. It was probably from Newman—had to be. This was just the kind of thing he'd do, she was sure of it. He was probably standing somewhere in the near-dark dawn, accompanied by this aide or that, waiting to jump out at her like some kind of Ed McMahon gone wrong, just as soon as she'd read the missive he'd sent.

Think again, bucko!

Erica grabbed the door handle, flipped the lock and opened it wide.

But there wasn't anyone there. No one. Well, not exactly no one: A lady stood at the edge of the fence in her bathrobe, holding a leash. She looked guilty as hell when Erica frowned at her, calling quickly to the fluffy white pooch buried somewhere in the high grass of Erica and Angelique's front lawn.