recovered. "Experts will always disagree, Senator. Our obligation is to place ethical considerations above scientific benefits that may not ever exist."
At the corner of his vision, Corey saw Senator Whiteside shake her head, and knew that Marotta had lost her. "My offer stands," Corey said dismissively, and turned from Marotta to his colleagues. "In the gallery," he said, "are many who hope this research will someday stop their suffering, or spare others what they or their loved ones have already suffered. We cannot tell them in good conscience that human beings must suffer or die to protect an embryo that will never become a life—let alone as human sacrifices to political expedience. Nor, in my theology, does the God we purport to believe in require this."
The gallery burst into applause, swiftly gaveled down by the Speaker pro tempore, a venerable Montanan who was Marotta's ally. "And so," Corey concluded, simply, "I will vote in favor of stem-cell research."
THOUGH THE VOTE was fifty-seven to forty-three, Corey felt no elation. Returning to his office, he was certain that his relationship with Marotta would become more difficult yet, and that the media—with some justice—would focus on the role of presidential politics in Corey's own decision.
On his chair was a single slip of paper with a cell-phone number. "She's free for dinner," Eve had written. "Call her."
9
AS THE MAÎTRE D' GUIDED COREY AND LEXIE HART TO A CORNER table at Tosca, he felt a level of attention more intense than usual. After they were seated, he remarked, "Seems like I'm particularly fascinating tonight. What could it be, I wonder?"
A smile flickered at one corner of her mouth. "Some people," she said, "may think this isn't a presidential thing to do."
Corey laughed. "Depends on which president, I suppose."
Their waitress arrived, seeking assurance that Lexie approved of their table. Instantly, Lexie became so responsive, so concerned that the young woman not be anxious, that Corey saw her from a different angle. The other thing he noted was that Lexie, asked if she cared for a cocktail or wine, ordered mineral water instead.
As Lexie raised her glass, she told him with a smile, "I want to thank you for what you did today. However complex your motives may have been."
Corey looked at her askance. "You're not easy, are you?"
"Not since the day I was born. Or so my mama used to say."
Corey hesitated, then touched his glass to hers. "To Mama."
Briefly, their eyes met. "Yeah," she said softly. "To Mama."
To others, Corey realized, this moment might seem more intimate than it was; two couples at a nearby table were sneaking looks at them, then whispering among themselves. "So what makes you think all this interest is about me?" Lexie inquired. "You do have a certain reputation, you know."
That
again, Corey thought; though he tried to shrug off such comments, this one fed his pervasive sense of being misapprehended. "So I hear. And all richly undeserved."
Her gray-green eyes appraised him, and then she seemed to catch his mood. "If there's one thing I understand, it's being the object of other people's fantasies. That's the business I'm in. I guess it doesn't help that you look like
you
should be in it, too."
Suddenly Corey experienced himself and Lexie less as a couple whom others might misapprehend than as two people who might define, in the next few sentences, whether their interaction would be trivial or truthful. "I joke about this," he told her. "But I look at the guy in
People,
and he doesn't seem like me."
As Lexie gazed at him silently, he registered her indifference to the usual social lubricants—the too easy laugh, or chatter intended to ward off an awkward silence. "So people just misunderstand you?" she asked.
This could have been a gibe or just an invitation to say more plainly what he meant. Perhaps out of loneliness, perhaps because she challenged him, he yielded to the impulse to be candid. "I don't know you at all,
At the corner of his vision, Corey saw Senator Whiteside shake her head, and knew that Marotta had lost her. "My offer stands," Corey said dismissively, and turned from Marotta to his colleagues. "In the gallery," he said, "are many who hope this research will someday stop their suffering, or spare others what they or their loved ones have already suffered. We cannot tell them in good conscience that human beings must suffer or die to protect an embryo that will never become a life—let alone as human sacrifices to political expedience. Nor, in my theology, does the God we purport to believe in require this."
The gallery burst into applause, swiftly gaveled down by the Speaker pro tempore, a venerable Montanan who was Marotta's ally. "And so," Corey concluded, simply, "I will vote in favor of stem-cell research."
THOUGH THE VOTE was fifty-seven to forty-three, Corey felt no elation. Returning to his office, he was certain that his relationship with Marotta would become more difficult yet, and that the media—with some justice—would focus on the role of presidential politics in Corey's own decision.
On his chair was a single slip of paper with a cell-phone number. "She's free for dinner," Eve had written. "Call her."
9
AS THE MAÎTRE D' GUIDED COREY AND LEXIE HART TO A CORNER table at Tosca, he felt a level of attention more intense than usual. After they were seated, he remarked, "Seems like I'm particularly fascinating tonight. What could it be, I wonder?"
A smile flickered at one corner of her mouth. "Some people," she said, "may think this isn't a presidential thing to do."
Corey laughed. "Depends on which president, I suppose."
Their waitress arrived, seeking assurance that Lexie approved of their table. Instantly, Lexie became so responsive, so concerned that the young woman not be anxious, that Corey saw her from a different angle. The other thing he noted was that Lexie, asked if she cared for a cocktail or wine, ordered mineral water instead.
As Lexie raised her glass, she told him with a smile, "I want to thank you for what you did today. However complex your motives may have been."
Corey looked at her askance. "You're not easy, are you?"
"Not since the day I was born. Or so my mama used to say."
Corey hesitated, then touched his glass to hers. "To Mama."
Briefly, their eyes met. "Yeah," she said softly. "To Mama."
To others, Corey realized, this moment might seem more intimate than it was; two couples at a nearby table were sneaking looks at them, then whispering among themselves. "So what makes you think all this interest is about me?" Lexie inquired. "You do have a certain reputation, you know."
That
again, Corey thought; though he tried to shrug off such comments, this one fed his pervasive sense of being misapprehended. "So I hear. And all richly undeserved."
Her gray-green eyes appraised him, and then she seemed to catch his mood. "If there's one thing I understand, it's being the object of other people's fantasies. That's the business I'm in. I guess it doesn't help that you look like
you
should be in it, too."
Suddenly Corey experienced himself and Lexie less as a couple whom others might misapprehend than as two people who might define, in the next few sentences, whether their interaction would be trivial or truthful. "I joke about this," he told her. "But I look at the guy in
People,
and he doesn't seem like me."
As Lexie gazed at him silently, he registered her indifference to the usual social lubricants—the too easy laugh, or chatter intended to ward off an awkward silence. "So people just misunderstand you?" she asked.
This could have been a gibe or just an invitation to say more plainly what he meant. Perhaps out of loneliness, perhaps because she challenged him, he yielded to the impulse to be candid. "I don't know you at all,
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