have to be at the forefront of the fight, Ben. Whether you like it or not, you have a reputation for being one of the most liberal senators in Congress. How many other senators do you think we can count on to oppose this?”
She paused, waiting for an answer. “Ben?”
He looked up, his eyes dark and tiny.
“I asked, ‘How many senators do you think we can count on to oppose this?’”
Ben tossed his head to one side. “I…really don’t know.”
She leaned across the desk. “Why are you mumbling?”
“I didn’t realize I was.”
“Trust me. I’ve known you a long time.” Her eyebrows knitted together. “Why am I getting the feeling you’re not hearing what I’ve been saying?”
Ben looked down again. “I heard you. Every word.”
“And you understand why it’s important to move quickly?”
No response.
“And we’re going to fight this thing, right?” She waited an uncomfortably long time. “Right?”
Ben picked up the bill. “You know, Christina…these are tough times.”
She stared at him, her eyes wide.
“No.”
“You haven’t spent most of the past week watching your best friend vegetate in a coma he may never recover from.”
“But that’s not the point—”
“I think it is,” Ben said, his voice rising.
She gaped at him, incredulous. “What are you saying, Ben?” Pause.
“Ben?”
He gazed down at the bill now clenched tightly between his fingers. “I think maybe this isn’t such a bad idea.”
10
S ENATE O VERFLOW P ARKING G ARAGE
W ASHINGTON , D.C.
B elinda DeMouy walked briskly through the dark underground parking garage. This was no place for a lady, much less a senator’s wife. It would have been smarter to park in one of the areas patrolled by the Capitol Police, but sometimes even a blue-blooded daughter of the American Revolution from Martha’s Vineyard didn’t make the smartest choice. Actually, she reflected, some might argue that her entire life had been a case study in not making the smartest choice. But it had worked out all right. She had her health, she had her weight back down into the double digits, and she was very popular with the other senators’ wives—even though most of them were considerably older than she was. She gave great tea. Even when she wasn’t smart, she was always proper.
Where exactly had she parked? If she got close enough to her car, she could use her keyless lock to flash the lights and make a beeping sound. Problem was, you had to practically be at the car before the keyless would work. Her Jag was equipped with a GPS so she wouldn’t get lost while driving. What a joke. She needed a GPS in her purse so she could find the car. Or she could leave it and take a taxi home. But no. That would not be proper.
Her mother’s favorite word. Proper.
She had been raised to do everything just so. There was a right way and a wrong way, and the Bradford girls did things the right way. Tasteful, fashionable clothes, matched and accessorized to perfection. Makeup. Hair styled and dyed and tone-matched to your complexion. Appearance. Presentation. Bradford girls must always be on their best behavior. Napkin in lap. The right fork. Appropriate dinner conversation. Dating only those boys deemed suitable for a Bradford girl. And even then—well, she was twenty-five before she let anyone get past first base.
Her marriage, to a politician twenty-two years her senior, had been calculated, strategized, and arranged. It was a good marriage, at least as judged by the society page. The engagement party, the bridal shower where she made the rehearsed speech telling all the guests how important they were to her, the wedding at Washington National Cathedral, and her elegant Vera Wang bridal gown. She had proved a great asset to her husband in his senate work, not to mention on the campaign trail. If nothing else, she ended the constant rumors and speculation that haunted every unmarried politico—the suspicion of gayness. And now they were
She paused, waiting for an answer. “Ben?”
He looked up, his eyes dark and tiny.
“I asked, ‘How many senators do you think we can count on to oppose this?’”
Ben tossed his head to one side. “I…really don’t know.”
She leaned across the desk. “Why are you mumbling?”
“I didn’t realize I was.”
“Trust me. I’ve known you a long time.” Her eyebrows knitted together. “Why am I getting the feeling you’re not hearing what I’ve been saying?”
Ben looked down again. “I heard you. Every word.”
“And you understand why it’s important to move quickly?”
No response.
“And we’re going to fight this thing, right?” She waited an uncomfortably long time. “Right?”
Ben picked up the bill. “You know, Christina…these are tough times.”
She stared at him, her eyes wide.
“No.”
“You haven’t spent most of the past week watching your best friend vegetate in a coma he may never recover from.”
“But that’s not the point—”
“I think it is,” Ben said, his voice rising.
She gaped at him, incredulous. “What are you saying, Ben?” Pause.
“Ben?”
He gazed down at the bill now clenched tightly between his fingers. “I think maybe this isn’t such a bad idea.”
10
S ENATE O VERFLOW P ARKING G ARAGE
W ASHINGTON , D.C.
B elinda DeMouy walked briskly through the dark underground parking garage. This was no place for a lady, much less a senator’s wife. It would have been smarter to park in one of the areas patrolled by the Capitol Police, but sometimes even a blue-blooded daughter of the American Revolution from Martha’s Vineyard didn’t make the smartest choice. Actually, she reflected, some might argue that her entire life had been a case study in not making the smartest choice. But it had worked out all right. She had her health, she had her weight back down into the double digits, and she was very popular with the other senators’ wives—even though most of them were considerably older than she was. She gave great tea. Even when she wasn’t smart, she was always proper.
Where exactly had she parked? If she got close enough to her car, she could use her keyless lock to flash the lights and make a beeping sound. Problem was, you had to practically be at the car before the keyless would work. Her Jag was equipped with a GPS so she wouldn’t get lost while driving. What a joke. She needed a GPS in her purse so she could find the car. Or she could leave it and take a taxi home. But no. That would not be proper.
Her mother’s favorite word. Proper.
She had been raised to do everything just so. There was a right way and a wrong way, and the Bradford girls did things the right way. Tasteful, fashionable clothes, matched and accessorized to perfection. Makeup. Hair styled and dyed and tone-matched to your complexion. Appearance. Presentation. Bradford girls must always be on their best behavior. Napkin in lap. The right fork. Appropriate dinner conversation. Dating only those boys deemed suitable for a Bradford girl. And even then—well, she was twenty-five before she let anyone get past first base.
Her marriage, to a politician twenty-two years her senior, had been calculated, strategized, and arranged. It was a good marriage, at least as judged by the society page. The engagement party, the bridal shower where she made the rehearsed speech telling all the guests how important they were to her, the wedding at Washington National Cathedral, and her elegant Vera Wang bridal gown. She had proved a great asset to her husband in his senate work, not to mention on the campaign trail. If nothing else, she ended the constant rumors and speculation that haunted every unmarried politico—the suspicion of gayness. And now they were
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