dimwit wife, and …
“Yeah, Tom, give her a break.” Kenny nudged his partner with an elbow. Kenny was good-natured and kind, and Ronnie often got the feeling that he felt a little sorry for her. Quinlan, on the other hand, hadbeen relentless. Say this, say that, do this, do that, wear this, wear that. Hold the Senator’s hand. Let your eyes tear up. Be dignified. Smile.
In Ronnie’s opinion the campaign theme song, played whenever Lewis or she arrived for a speaking engagement, should be changed from the Trumanesque “Happy Days Are Here Again” to “Stand By Your Man.” By now Ronnie could almost hear the words of Tammy Wynette’s country lament every time Quinlan opened his mouth.
“Fine,” Quinlan said, and subsided.
Thea smiled at him. Ronnie closed her eyes again.
A fruit basket awaited her on a table in her hotel suite. Ronnie was glad to see it, because she was hungry. At dinners such as the one she had just attended, she was never able to eat. She was “on,” which was not conducive to digestion.
It was a large basket, clearly expensive, crammed with more oranges and grapes and grapefruit than she, alone, could eat in a month. Probably it was from the group she was addressing the next morning. Stepping out of her shoes—sensible pumps with two-inch heels in a style dictated by Quinlan—Ronnie walked over to it and looked for the card. She found it beneath a bunch of grapes, one of which she popped into her mouth as she pulled the card free.
The grape was sour. Ronnie made a face, and mentally passed on a second one.
Honey, you’re doing great. Love, Lewis , the card read in a stranger’s handwriting.
A fruit basket? From Lewis? Ronnie felt a bubble of hysterical laughter rise in her throat.
Never since she had met him had he sent her such a thing.
As a gift from a penitent husband to a wronged wife, it was ludicrous.
Of course he had instructed someone on his staff to send a gift to her hotel room. Or maybe a diligent staff member had come up with the idea on his or her own. Something to keep the little woman happy. Something to let her know she was appreciated. Something to keep her toeing the party line.
And be sure and call her honey.
It was even possible that Quinlan had initiated it. Although he was supposed to be on her team, in deed if not words he had proven to be Lewis’s flunky rather than her own.
On second thought Ronnie absolved Quinlan of this particular boneheaded gesture. A fruit basket was far too clumsy a gift to have been sent at his instigation. Quinlan would have taken a poll and found that the optimum gift from an erring senator to his ever-loyal spouse was a fabulous piece of jewelry, or something.
Ronnie walked into the bathroom. The floor was dark green marble tile, and it felt cool beneath her stockinged feet. She leaned over to turn on the taps to the bath—sleep had been illusive lately and she’d found that soaking in a hot bath helped—and turned back to the sink. For a moment she stood motionless, staring at her reflection in the mirror.
She didn’t look like herself. Oh, her features were the same, as delicate and elegantly cut and lovely as ever. And her hair was the same deep red, and her eyesthe same chocolate brown. But there were shadows under her eyes where she had never had shadows before, and a small vertical crease between her brows that stayed put even when she stopped frowning. Lifting a well-manicured hand—her nails were now tipped in pale pink at Quinlan’s instigation rather than the deeper shades she preferred—she pressed the cool pad of her forefinger against the crease, hoping to smooth it out. Eyeing herself critically, Ronnie thought that she looked haggard. Was she starting to show her age—surely twenty-nine did not look so old!—or was it stress? Of course it was very possible that her washed-out appearance could be attributed to the pale pinks and soft browns of her makeup, colors she never chose for herself but that
“Yeah, Tom, give her a break.” Kenny nudged his partner with an elbow. Kenny was good-natured and kind, and Ronnie often got the feeling that he felt a little sorry for her. Quinlan, on the other hand, hadbeen relentless. Say this, say that, do this, do that, wear this, wear that. Hold the Senator’s hand. Let your eyes tear up. Be dignified. Smile.
In Ronnie’s opinion the campaign theme song, played whenever Lewis or she arrived for a speaking engagement, should be changed from the Trumanesque “Happy Days Are Here Again” to “Stand By Your Man.” By now Ronnie could almost hear the words of Tammy Wynette’s country lament every time Quinlan opened his mouth.
“Fine,” Quinlan said, and subsided.
Thea smiled at him. Ronnie closed her eyes again.
A fruit basket awaited her on a table in her hotel suite. Ronnie was glad to see it, because she was hungry. At dinners such as the one she had just attended, she was never able to eat. She was “on,” which was not conducive to digestion.
It was a large basket, clearly expensive, crammed with more oranges and grapes and grapefruit than she, alone, could eat in a month. Probably it was from the group she was addressing the next morning. Stepping out of her shoes—sensible pumps with two-inch heels in a style dictated by Quinlan—Ronnie walked over to it and looked for the card. She found it beneath a bunch of grapes, one of which she popped into her mouth as she pulled the card free.
The grape was sour. Ronnie made a face, and mentally passed on a second one.
Honey, you’re doing great. Love, Lewis , the card read in a stranger’s handwriting.
A fruit basket? From Lewis? Ronnie felt a bubble of hysterical laughter rise in her throat.
Never since she had met him had he sent her such a thing.
As a gift from a penitent husband to a wronged wife, it was ludicrous.
Of course he had instructed someone on his staff to send a gift to her hotel room. Or maybe a diligent staff member had come up with the idea on his or her own. Something to keep the little woman happy. Something to let her know she was appreciated. Something to keep her toeing the party line.
And be sure and call her honey.
It was even possible that Quinlan had initiated it. Although he was supposed to be on her team, in deed if not words he had proven to be Lewis’s flunky rather than her own.
On second thought Ronnie absolved Quinlan of this particular boneheaded gesture. A fruit basket was far too clumsy a gift to have been sent at his instigation. Quinlan would have taken a poll and found that the optimum gift from an erring senator to his ever-loyal spouse was a fabulous piece of jewelry, or something.
Ronnie walked into the bathroom. The floor was dark green marble tile, and it felt cool beneath her stockinged feet. She leaned over to turn on the taps to the bath—sleep had been illusive lately and she’d found that soaking in a hot bath helped—and turned back to the sink. For a moment she stood motionless, staring at her reflection in the mirror.
She didn’t look like herself. Oh, her features were the same, as delicate and elegantly cut and lovely as ever. And her hair was the same deep red, and her eyesthe same chocolate brown. But there were shadows under her eyes where she had never had shadows before, and a small vertical crease between her brows that stayed put even when she stopped frowning. Lifting a well-manicured hand—her nails were now tipped in pale pink at Quinlan’s instigation rather than the deeper shades she preferred—she pressed the cool pad of her forefinger against the crease, hoping to smooth it out. Eyeing herself critically, Ronnie thought that she looked haggard. Was she starting to show her age—surely twenty-nine did not look so old!—or was it stress? Of course it was very possible that her washed-out appearance could be attributed to the pale pinks and soft browns of her makeup, colors she never chose for herself but that
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