She shoved the money into her backpack. “Some kind of scam is going on, but I have absolute confidence that you’ll snuff it out. Ciao.”
Identity theft, of course. For the first time since reading Jeffrey Cobb’s write-up on me, I welcomed the thought of nailing another opponent. In fact, I intended to have some fun. Before I’d pass this data to Will, I’d schmooze a bit with the fake Greg McKenna at the Meet the Candidates reception the next day.
Feeling downright sadistic — a much more uplifting feeling than Jeffrey Cobb-inspired guilt — I breezed into the Shelton Hotel. As I was checking my coat, Will Stafford tapped my shoulder.
“What have you got for me on that matter we talked about yesterday?”
“Nothing yet, but I’m working on it.”
“Don’t dawdle. I want a full report by Monday.”
Nodding toward the banquet room, he added, “Get some face-time with the Colorado Kid. Over by the nonalcoholic punch bowl.”
I waited a moment until Will had floated into a sea of sycophants before heading toward the punch bowl, where I witnessed an enchanting sight: A tall, slender man bowed to a little blond-haired girl and in a princely gesture handed her a cup of juice. She in turn curtsied to him. Registering my first sight of Greg, widower and father of a four-year-old, sapped some of my oppo resolve. When he glanced at me and smiled, I saw an adult version of Jim Driscoll, my first love in high school. In complete meltdown, I focused on a three-tiered plate of cheese cubes and nervously stabbed at them, creating a pyramid on my dish. And I don’t even like cheese.
Chiding myself for this foolish reaction to a good-looking man, I put my plate on an empty table and headed toward the lounge to comb that man right out of my head. With each fierce swipe I reminded myself that this sweet-looking guy had stolen the identity of Greg McKenna and that he mustn’t be too swift in the brains department not to realize that we’d spot the deception within hours of his filing his candidacy. Regaining my oppo resolve, I pledged to demonize him.
Having mentally rejoined the battle, I marched over to the drinks table and seized a glass of white wine. On my first sip, a bump against my arm sent the soothing liquid down my skirt. I whirled around and saw the handsome prince hug his little princess and tell her that it was Daddy’s fault that the punch spilled on my skirt.
“I bumped your arm, sweetheart,” he soothed. “I’ll tell the pretty lady I’m sorry.”
Clumsily, he grabbed several napkins from the table and thrust them at me, accompanied by a chorus of “I’m sorry” and “I’ll ask the waiter for club soda.” Blushing and mumbling for him not to bother, I dabbed at my skirt and joined the regulars paying homage to Will, who scowled at me for leaving Greg McKenna. For the first time in our relationship, Will’s displeasure didn’t faze me. I needed time to reclaim my oppo persona before I did my job and morphed the handsome prince into a frog.
Perhaps pricking my thumb as I arranged the roses Greg sent to my home the next day should have served as a warning about succumbing to fairy tales, but it didn’t. Heart fluttering, I read the attached card:
Dear Anne,
A kind schoolteacher who is quite the political activist saw my dilemma over the spilled wine and gave me your address. Please accept these roses from Melissa and me. (She still feels responsible.) Melissa is hoping that she can treat you to lunch at McDougal’s. I’ll call tomorrow to see if you’ll agree.
Greg McKenzie.
Greg McKenzie! Not Greg McKenna! I grabbed my roses and danced around the room, ignoring the little drop of blood that fell on the carpet. One of Will’s cronies had goofed. I waltzed over to the phone to call Eve and order a search on the real name, but skidded to a stop. No, I would not call Eve. At that moment it didn’t matter to me what the party needed to know about Greg McKenzie. I had learned all I needed to know about him from a spilled glass of wine.
And from a spilled container of French fries. How graciously he scooped up the mound that my elbow had sent to the floor of McDougal’s.
“Just want to lighten the clean-up load of the minimum-wagers,” he smiled as he dumped them into the trash bin.
“Daddy always says we should help people we don’t even know,” Melissa said. “Do you help people you don’t even know?”
“Well, I try to,” I told the sweet child, and blinked away memories of hatchet jobs on strangers, grateful that a misspelling had kept her father’s head off the block. And such a nice head it was, I thought as he grinned at me, slid back into his seat, and put on his political hat.
“There are so many items on my agenda,” he said, “but I am a complete unknown here. I’ve been away since high school. I have no name or face recognition. I need something big to get my candidacy out there. I almost don’t know where to start.”
But like a seasoned politician, he did start, and sometime during Melissa’s sundae, he got the cue that I thought came too soon. His daughter yawned.
“She’s preparing me for the reaction of constituents to long-winded types,” he laughed. “It’s time to take the princess back to the castle.”
Protesting non-fatigue, Melissa dimpled at me before turning to Greg and saying, “But we will see Anne again, won’t we, Daddy?”
“I sure hope so, Princess,” he answered.
“Maybe a trip to the zoo?” I offered to show my willingness to include Melissa in a future relationship, a suggestion I later regretted not because of the child, but as evidence of my utter naiveté. She clapped her hands and Greg smiled. We made a date for the following Tuesday.
As a trio that focused on Melissa’s needs, we arranged to visit other child-friendly spots as soon as we left the previous one. My feelings for Greg blossomed as I witnessed his love for his daughter and experienced his gratitude for my presence at these outings. At the zoo, he held my hand as we sat on a bench and watched Melissa laugh at the monkeys. In the darkness of the aquarium, he put his arm around me as I shuddered at the sight of the sharks at feeding time. When leaving Bo-Peep Land, he kissed my cheek before settling Melissa into her booster seat to return her to day care and to go to his job at a law firm.
Those signs of affection helped to quiet the nagging thought that I might as well be auditioning for the job of Melissa’s nanny. True love, as my forty-seven-year-married mother used to say, starts as an ember and turns into a flame. Easy does it, I told myself. Besides, those child-oriented “dates” served my purposes well. None of Will Stafford’s inner circle hung out at Bo-Peep Land or any of our other venues to report to the chief that his oppo was consorting with the enemy. And whoever was managing Greg’s campaign was doing a wonderful job of keeping him away from the age group that actually votes. Greg didn’t need my help to lose; his endearing political cluelessness would do the job.
Unfortunately, the neglect of my oppo duties did not go unnoticed by a real pro. Accustomed to instant results, Will summoned me three times in a week to the duck pond — a place I didn’t dare go with Greg and Melissa.
“So where’s the stuff on McKenna?” he growled.
Hoping to buy time for my relationship with Greg McKenzie, I didn’t correct Will’s mistake.
“I’m working on it.”
“What’s taking so long?”
“My computer genius ran into a firewall.”
He frowned. “So get another one, someone smart enough not to run into a wall.”
I flashed him a superior smile. “Firewall is a computer term for protection devices. She’ll get past it.”
The second time, I told him that Eve was nanoseconds away from chiseling through the firewall. The third time, I told him that Eve was inside the vault, but the data bank had changed its coding system. From the look he gave me, I knew there would be no fourth time, at least at the duck pond.