But first he had to get over Julie. His marriage had ended in the summer of ninety-four, when a drunk driver had rammed head-on into the car his wife had been driving home from the library, breaking her back and causing irreparable damage to her head. He had buried her six months ago. He hadn’t cried then. More than seven years of watching her lying there, alive and yet not alive—Julie and yet not Julie—had used up his lifetime quota of tears.
For seven years he’d taken her bouquets of her favorite flower. Flowers she couldn’t see, couldn’t smell, but he told himself that deep down, she sensed they were there. And that he loved her—would always love her, no matter what. Finally in early February, on a cold, rainy morning, he had buried her beside her parents, after a private memorial service. Then he’d gone home alone and deliberately drunk himself insensible.
A week later he had handed in his resignation, poured three bottles of double-malt whisky down the sink and stocked up on colas. He’d spent the summer brooding, watching baseball and rereading War and Peace. Once the baseball season ended, he’d promised himself, he would start thinking about what he was going to do with the rest of his life.
It had taken Dan’s retirement party to pry him out of his apartment and back into circulation. About time, he acknowledged with bitter amusement. His social skills, never particularly impressive, had grown dull with lack of use.
“Mac, glad to see you.” Quietly, he greeted a guy who had once covered the White House for one of the major networks, then edged past him.
“Hey, Rock—where you been? Haven’t seen you around lately.”
“Rocko, good to see you, man,” someone else called out.
He made it about halfway to the door, weaving his way through clusters of people he knew vaguely. Got held up between one of the massive sofas and a cluster of women picking over the bones of some poor devil obviously known to them all.
“Did you see him at that last press conference? I swear, if I looked like that, I’d slit my—”
A redhead wearing a black suit about two sizes too small leaned forward, sloshing her drink dangerously close to the rim of her glass, and said in a whisky-thickened voice, “Honey, I peeked into his underwear drawer, and believe you me, those rumors are the gospel truth!”
Gossip was the order of the day. Snide comments, catty remarks. Rocky glanced at his watch. He’d planned on being in and out within twenty minutes, tops. It had taken him that long just to work his way across the room. Anyone who had been around pols and media types as long as he had should have known what to expect. With scandal in D.C. as plentiful as cherry blossoms in spring, it didn’t take much effort to pick up a thread here and another one there and weave them into a story that could ruin a few lives and leapfrog a career.
Thank God he hadn’t chosen that route. He didn’t have the stomach for it. Once he’d realized that his objectivity as a reporter was beginning to give way to advocacy, he had asked for reassignment. It had meant not seeing as much of Julie, but then, the hours spent by her bedside had been more for his sake than for hers. The doctor had told him right from the first that, while she might appear to be responding, critical portions of her brain had been injured. That it was only a matter of time before her vital functions began to shut down.
Despite the prognosis, he had gone on hoping. Reading to her, taking her flowers, relating news about people they both knew. Resignation had set in slowly, over a matter of years. He wasn’t even aware of when he’d stopped hoping.
Someone bumped into him, spilling a drink on his sleeve.
“Oops, sorry.”
“No problem.” He had to get out of here. This time he almost made it to the door. “Excuse me—pardon me.”
The woman blocking his exit turned. Her eyes widened as she gave him a slow once-over. “Well, hello, honey. Not leaving so soon, are you?”
“Another appointment.” No thanks. It’s been a long, dry spell, but I’m not that hard up.
Three women emerged from one of the suite’s two bathrooms and paused, still talking, blocking the door to the hallway. A brunette with a spectacular super-structure was saying, “Well, anyhow, like I said, the first two publishers turned it down flat. They as good as told us to take it to the tabloids, but the very next day my agent showed it to another publisher and he offered us a six-figure advance, and my agent said—”
“Forget what your agent said, Binky, check with a lawyer. He’s the one you want beside you the first time you’re sued for libel.”
“No chance. Who’s going to step forward and claim credit for something like that? Besides, my agent says I’m safe because this is a first-person account and I’m not actually naming names.”
“Aw, come on, Binky, you’re not claiming to be Sully’s first, are you?”
All three women laughed. “Are you kidding?”
Amused in spite of himself Rocky squeezed past and waited for the elevator. The woman called Binky was still holding forth. If he wasn’t mistaken, she did a social column for one of the weeklies. He’d once heard her chest referred to as the Grand Tetons.
“Listen, I’m talking group stuff here,” she said, her heavily made-up eyes sparkling avidly. “Kinky like you wouldn’t believe! Poor Sully said his wife was about as exciting as wet bread. He had a taste for fancier fare, if you know what I mean.”
“I met her once at a fund-raiser. His wife, I mean. She struck me as real uptight. All the same, I’d watch my back if I were you. You know what they say about those quiet types.”
Rocky would take his chances with a quiet type anyday over these pampered piranhas. He felt sorry for the wife of whatever poor jerk they were discussing. Evidently she’d been victimized first by her husband and now was about to be pilloried all over again by the public’s insatiable appetite for dirt.
“Yeah, well who’s interested in her?” Binky unbuttoned her black jacket to reveal the scrap of ecru lace she wore instead of a blouse. “Did I tell you they’re rushing production? They’ve got three editors working on it, and marketing has booked me on all the talk shows. I mean, with a title like The Senator’s Daughter’s Husband’s Other Women, it’s gonna make all the lists, probably the top slot, because my agent says—”
The elevator stopped. The doors opened. Rocky stood there, frowning in thought until the doors silently closed again. He had once known a senator’s daughter who had later married a congressman. Was she talking about that particular senator’s daughter? The one who had married that particular congressman? Even by Washington standards, that had been rough. The press had been all over it.
Not that he’d really known her, Rocky amended as another elevator stopped to let off a couple of late arrivals. Still frowning, he stepped onboard. Actually, he’d only spoken to her one time, years before her father’s misdeeds had begun to surface. Years before she had married the senator’s trained seal in the House—a man who had gone down in flames in a separate scandal shortly after the senator had been figuratively tarred and feathered and ridden out of town on a rail.
Rocky had been covering the Middle East Summit when the wedding had taken place. He remembered watching some of the coverage. The Sullivans and Joneses, while hardly in the Kennedy class, had still made a pretty big splash. Even the veep had attended the festivities. She’d made a beautiful bride. Not pretty in the usual sense, but with an innate poise that could easily be called regal. He’d caught a flash of that funny little half smile he remembered from their one and only meeting years earlier.
It had been a few years after that when the lid had blown off the first scandal. There’d been rumblings before, but nothing that couldn’t be blamed on partisan politics. Finally, with its back to the wall, Justice had appointed an independent council to investigate, and Rocky had watched from whatever assignment he happened to be on as one after another, Senator J. Abernathy Jones’s sins were laid bare.
The