Pentagon. Or how you ended up in a prime beachfront home on a magazine columnist's salary. You've joked and fooled around and have really never answered my questions directly, and I've put up with that. Your other ... your other assets have outweighed whatever questions or concerns I've had."
My hand tightened on the telephone receiver. I knew where this was going.
"So, having said all of that," she went on, "would you mind telling me why you've never told me about you and the senator's wife? Barbara? Why you decided to keep that little secret from me? Good God, I can't believe the news media have picked up on it already ... her former boyfriend being initially charged in the shooting. So far, it’s only the staff who knows this."
'We knew each other in college," I said. "Just for a while. It was ... I didn't think it was that important, Annie."
Another sigh. "I'm working on a campaign for a man who might be the next president of the United States, and you used to date the future first lady when you were in college. And you didn't think to tell me?"
"I was ... it just didn't ... well, to tell you the truth, I didn't think Senator Hale was going to make it this far. So I didn't think it was worth bringing up."
Annie said, "Nope. Not good enough. I think there's something else. And once you figure it out, do me the favor of telling me. All right?"
It was my turn to sigh. "Sure. Look, there was no secret agenda, it was just ---"
"Lewis, you're a man with secrets. Most times it's charming. This isn't one of those times."
"I hear you."
"Thanks. Look ... we'll be pretty busy over here tonight. I don't think I'm going to make it over to your place later."
"Oh. I see."
"No, really ... we're busy. I'll see if I can't come over tomorrow. All right?"
"That would be great."
A few more words here and there, and then she hung up. Before me again was the blank screen.
The hell with it.
I was done for the day. The next morning I went for a quick walk across the street to the Lafayette House to get my morning newspapers. Being in such an isolated location, newspaper delivery was out of the question, and since I got my mail from a post office box --- which meant the usual drive into town --- I most always got my newspapers from the gift shop at the Lafayette House.
The air was sharp and crisp as I walked up my driveway.
Hands in my pockets, I carefully made my way up to the hotel's parking lot, trying to decide what to say to any die-hard members of the fourth estate who might still be on stakeout duty. But when I reached the parking lot, I hated to say it, but I was disappointed. No one was waiting for me. The reporting hand, having writ, had obviously moved on to another story.
I took in a deep breath of the fresh sea air. Some other story was no doubt out there, being chased by the dedicated men and women of the news media, and I was now content to be left alone.
I went across Atlantic Avenue, up to the white colossus that was the Lafayette House, and then strode into the marble and glass splendor of its lobby. To the left was the gift shop, and I left a few seconds later, with five newspapers under my arm, after exchanging the usual pleasantries with the gift shop manager, a retired air force chief warrant officer named Stephanie Sussex. She had short gray hair, old-fashioned black-rimmed glasses that were bowed like cat whiskers, a black turtleneck adorned by a simple gold crucifix, and the same old joke.
"Still reading for five people?"
"Looks that way, doesn't it."
She rang up my purchases and said, "Least you could do is make 'em pay for it. Have a good one."
"Thanks," I said. "I'll try."
I liked the feeling of the newspapers under my arm. I know that we are in a new world of computerized information, with most of the world's newspapers now available with the click of a keyboard or a mouse, but I still like the feel of newspapers in my hands. It just feels more real. Besides, the computer geniuses who brought
My hand tightened on the telephone receiver. I knew where this was going.
"So, having said all of that," she went on, "would you mind telling me why you've never told me about you and the senator's wife? Barbara? Why you decided to keep that little secret from me? Good God, I can't believe the news media have picked up on it already ... her former boyfriend being initially charged in the shooting. So far, it’s only the staff who knows this."
'We knew each other in college," I said. "Just for a while. It was ... I didn't think it was that important, Annie."
Another sigh. "I'm working on a campaign for a man who might be the next president of the United States, and you used to date the future first lady when you were in college. And you didn't think to tell me?"
"I was ... it just didn't ... well, to tell you the truth, I didn't think Senator Hale was going to make it this far. So I didn't think it was worth bringing up."
Annie said, "Nope. Not good enough. I think there's something else. And once you figure it out, do me the favor of telling me. All right?"
It was my turn to sigh. "Sure. Look, there was no secret agenda, it was just ---"
"Lewis, you're a man with secrets. Most times it's charming. This isn't one of those times."
"I hear you."
"Thanks. Look ... we'll be pretty busy over here tonight. I don't think I'm going to make it over to your place later."
"Oh. I see."
"No, really ... we're busy. I'll see if I can't come over tomorrow. All right?"
"That would be great."
A few more words here and there, and then she hung up. Before me again was the blank screen.
The hell with it.
I was done for the day. The next morning I went for a quick walk across the street to the Lafayette House to get my morning newspapers. Being in such an isolated location, newspaper delivery was out of the question, and since I got my mail from a post office box --- which meant the usual drive into town --- I most always got my newspapers from the gift shop at the Lafayette House.
The air was sharp and crisp as I walked up my driveway.
Hands in my pockets, I carefully made my way up to the hotel's parking lot, trying to decide what to say to any die-hard members of the fourth estate who might still be on stakeout duty. But when I reached the parking lot, I hated to say it, but I was disappointed. No one was waiting for me. The reporting hand, having writ, had obviously moved on to another story.
I took in a deep breath of the fresh sea air. Some other story was no doubt out there, being chased by the dedicated men and women of the news media, and I was now content to be left alone.
I went across Atlantic Avenue, up to the white colossus that was the Lafayette House, and then strode into the marble and glass splendor of its lobby. To the left was the gift shop, and I left a few seconds later, with five newspapers under my arm, after exchanging the usual pleasantries with the gift shop manager, a retired air force chief warrant officer named Stephanie Sussex. She had short gray hair, old-fashioned black-rimmed glasses that were bowed like cat whiskers, a black turtleneck adorned by a simple gold crucifix, and the same old joke.
"Still reading for five people?"
"Looks that way, doesn't it."
She rang up my purchases and said, "Least you could do is make 'em pay for it. Have a good one."
"Thanks," I said. "I'll try."
I liked the feeling of the newspapers under my arm. I know that we are in a new world of computerized information, with most of the world's newspapers now available with the click of a keyboard or a mouse, but I still like the feel of newspapers in my hands. It just feels more real. Besides, the computer geniuses who brought
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