pouch. She pulled out a little spiral notebook she’d gotten at the drugstore. It had a picture of an American flag on the front.
“I’m a very enthusiastic Lassiter supporter.” She held the notebook up so the woman couldn’t miss it. “I’ve been to all the rallies. And I think it’s time I got involved.”
She looked for a nameplate or a name tag, since you were supposed to call people by their names, but there wasn’t one.
“I’m—” She paused, remembering her plan. And her secret name. “—I’m Hannah,” she said. Bright smile. Hannah. Then she waited.
The woman didn’t introduce herself. Whatever. Didn’t matter. Holly knew from her phone calls that the volunteer office was on the third floor. So was the communications department, where the press people were. Owen’s office was the only one on the fourth floor. Holly-Hannah simply had to get upstairs.
“Do you have an appointment?” the receptionist asked. The phone rang, and Holly waited while she answered it, saying, “Lassiter for Senate.” The woman pushed some buttons on the phone console, then looked at Holly again. It seemed like she didn’t love her job.
“Oh, well, no, I don’t, but this is such an important election, you know?” Holly had practiced what she would say, and it seemed just right. “I do the neighborhood newspaper? I’m like, kind of a neighborhood reporter? I write while my kids are at school. And I’d love to do a story about Governor Lassiter. Maybe I could get a quick tour of headquarters? See what it’s really like inside a campaign?”
She watched the woman look her up and down. Well, fine, go ahead. Holly looked perfect. She tried not to smile. Perfectly awful . A coat she’d gotten at a cheapo store, an acrylic scarf, stretchy wool gloves. The blonde behind the desk, all that chest showing even under that sweater, hideous. She’d assume she was seeing some nerdy housewife, trying to get out of the house and have a life. As if.
“If you’d like an interview with the governor,” the woman was saying, “you’ll have to go through our press office. I could take your name and number.”
The woman yanked a sliding shelf from under the desktop. Holly could see a list of names and phone extensions taped to it, but it was too hard to read upside down. “Or you can contact Sheila King directly. She handles press. Extension 403.” The woman looked up at her. “Do you need to write that down?”
The blonde’s lipsticky mouth went tight, as if Holly were bothering her. Pretty snippy for a receptionist. The phone rang, then rang again. Holly waited, so patiently, while the woman answered the calls.
“Lassiter for Senate. Please hold. Lassiter for Senate.”
It made Holly smile to hear his name.
“Oh, I don’t need an interview with the governor, gosh no.” Holly tried to look as if the thought had never crossed her mind. “Can I call Sheila King from here? Maybe someone could show me how it all looks, and I could maybe get some shots of it for the paper?”
Another call came in, then another. The phone woman kept answering, looking more and more annoyed. Another group of somebodies talked as they waited at the elevator, comparing pieces of paper, voices bouncing off the marble walls.
The woman behind the desk stood up. She was smiling, patting her hair, adjusting that sweater. But she was looking past Holly, beyond her shoulder. The people at the elevator stopped talking, every one of them, and turned the same direction. So Holly had to turn, too.
And there was Owen Lassiter. Striding through the revolving door and into the lobby. The bustle of the evening swirled into the building with him, the clatter of traffic, the wind, sirens peeling down Causeway Street. His hair was blown, cheeks ruddy, white shirt so white. She could almost feel the force field around him. Two men in suits trotted to keep up, one of them, a youngish man not far behind, carrying a stack of papers.
Holly’s hand
“I’m a very enthusiastic Lassiter supporter.” She held the notebook up so the woman couldn’t miss it. “I’ve been to all the rallies. And I think it’s time I got involved.”
She looked for a nameplate or a name tag, since you were supposed to call people by their names, but there wasn’t one.
“I’m—” She paused, remembering her plan. And her secret name. “—I’m Hannah,” she said. Bright smile. Hannah. Then she waited.
The woman didn’t introduce herself. Whatever. Didn’t matter. Holly knew from her phone calls that the volunteer office was on the third floor. So was the communications department, where the press people were. Owen’s office was the only one on the fourth floor. Holly-Hannah simply had to get upstairs.
“Do you have an appointment?” the receptionist asked. The phone rang, and Holly waited while she answered it, saying, “Lassiter for Senate.” The woman pushed some buttons on the phone console, then looked at Holly again. It seemed like she didn’t love her job.
“Oh, well, no, I don’t, but this is such an important election, you know?” Holly had practiced what she would say, and it seemed just right. “I do the neighborhood newspaper? I’m like, kind of a neighborhood reporter? I write while my kids are at school. And I’d love to do a story about Governor Lassiter. Maybe I could get a quick tour of headquarters? See what it’s really like inside a campaign?”
She watched the woman look her up and down. Well, fine, go ahead. Holly looked perfect. She tried not to smile. Perfectly awful . A coat she’d gotten at a cheapo store, an acrylic scarf, stretchy wool gloves. The blonde behind the desk, all that chest showing even under that sweater, hideous. She’d assume she was seeing some nerdy housewife, trying to get out of the house and have a life. As if.
“If you’d like an interview with the governor,” the woman was saying, “you’ll have to go through our press office. I could take your name and number.”
The woman yanked a sliding shelf from under the desktop. Holly could see a list of names and phone extensions taped to it, but it was too hard to read upside down. “Or you can contact Sheila King directly. She handles press. Extension 403.” The woman looked up at her. “Do you need to write that down?”
The blonde’s lipsticky mouth went tight, as if Holly were bothering her. Pretty snippy for a receptionist. The phone rang, then rang again. Holly waited, so patiently, while the woman answered the calls.
“Lassiter for Senate. Please hold. Lassiter for Senate.”
It made Holly smile to hear his name.
“Oh, I don’t need an interview with the governor, gosh no.” Holly tried to look as if the thought had never crossed her mind. “Can I call Sheila King from here? Maybe someone could show me how it all looks, and I could maybe get some shots of it for the paper?”
Another call came in, then another. The phone woman kept answering, looking more and more annoyed. Another group of somebodies talked as they waited at the elevator, comparing pieces of paper, voices bouncing off the marble walls.
The woman behind the desk stood up. She was smiling, patting her hair, adjusting that sweater. But she was looking past Holly, beyond her shoulder. The people at the elevator stopped talking, every one of them, and turned the same direction. So Holly had to turn, too.
And there was Owen Lassiter. Striding through the revolving door and into the lobby. The bustle of the evening swirled into the building with him, the clatter of traffic, the wind, sirens peeling down Causeway Street. His hair was blown, cheeks ruddy, white shirt so white. She could almost feel the force field around him. Two men in suits trotted to keep up, one of them, a youngish man not far behind, carrying a stack of papers.
Holly’s hand
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