At a traffic light he turned, grinning. “So ever since then, I am in Mister Lawrence’s debt. Especially since he arranged for my family and me to come here, to this blessed land.”
“Mister Lawrence is lucky to have you at his side.”
Suraj chuckled. In the front seat of the Town Car was a copy of that day’s Washington Post. He reached underneath the paper, pulled out a long, curved knife called a kukri. “Many Taliban have felt the kiss of this, and if anyone attempts to harm Mister Lawrence, they will get a sweet kiss, indeed.”
I was dropped off on M Street, at an impressive office building that had a huge banner stretched across the lobby entrance: HALE FOR PRESIDENT CAMPAIGN HEADQUARTERS. I went down the street and purchased that day’s Post from a kiosk, and then slowly walked back to campaign headquarters. I took my time. I slowly went up the sidewalk and down, and then, on a return trip, my patience paid off.
Two black limos rolled up and a group of serious-looking men and women in power suits bailed out. I resisted the urge to make a serious circus clown car reference. Half of them were talking on cell phones, and the other half were talking to each other, hands and arms flying. They went through the double glass doors, and I fell in step behind them. They skirted past a security desk, flashing badges, and they didn’t hesitate as they approached a bank of elevators. A uniformed security guard — a young female — waved us all through.
So much for D.C. security.
With the aid of cheerful campaign workers who were no doubt impressed with the newspaper I was carrying and my age, it took just a couple of minutes to find Annie Wynn’s office, which was an impressive office indeed. When I had first seen her at work for Senator Jackson Hale of Georgia, it had been a frigid January in New Hampshire with lots of snow and ice. Her office back then had been a battered surplus battleship-gray desk, jammed up against a host of others in a rented space that had once been a clothing store in downtown Manchester. The phones would always be ringing, voices would be raised, and trash barrels were overflowing with pizza boxes and Chinese takeout food containers.
Now she had a private office, with expensive-looking furniture, leather chairs, a couch, a credenza, and piles of newspapers and briefing books. I sat down on the couch, looked out the window which had a jaw-dropping view of the office building across the street. The whole floor was neat, with nary a pizza box to be found, and the phones had low ringing chimes that seemed to gently ask you to pick them up.
Yet there was still a sense of energy to the people out there in the other offices and cubicles, a grim determination to fight these last few weeks to elect their man president. I recalled my father, years and years ago when I was in high school, talking about the last presidential candidate who had seemed to enjoy it all, Humphrey, the former V.P. from Minnesota. A “happy warrior,” my father had said, the very last of the breed.
I took in the office. A television set that was muted, showing CNN, and a computer monitor. No photos, no mementoes, nothing personal in here that said it belonged to Annie Wynn, formerly of Massachusetts, who spent a lot of time in New Hampshire.
Her voice, coming down the halclass="underline" “… and tell Eddie to bump back the caucus meeting to two P.M. The Senator’s BBC interview is going to run over, I know it. And get me the latest numbers from Colorado, and damn it, I don’t care what they say, I want a better sampling this time!”
She breezed in, dumped a set of black briefing books on the table, and turned to me, cell phone in hand.
Her hand lowered. Her face showed shock, but still looked pretty good. Pretty damn good, in fact. She had on black high-heeled shoes, black hose, and a dark gray skirt cut just above her knees. The blouse fit her curves nicely and was ivory with lots of collar and lace, and her fine auburn hair was curled around at the base of her neck in some sort of braid. I was pleased to see she was wearing a gold necklace that I had bought for her last summer at a crafts fair up at Sunapee, New Hampshire.
“Annie,” I said.
She shook her head. “Lewis, what the hell are you doing here?”
I stood up. “Nice to see you, too.”
She bit her lower lip, closed her eyes for a quick moment. “Sorry, it’s been one of those months.” Now she smiled and I went to her, and we hugged and kissed, and the touch and smell of her made it suddenly seem all right.
Still smiling, she went around and sat behind her desk, and I sat across from her on a fine black leather chair. “You bad boy, how did you get in here?”
“I walked.”
“Past security?”
“Apparently so,” and she shook her head.
“Sorry,” she said. “Not a laughing matter.” She picked up a pen, scribbled a note, and then said, “Dear one, why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”
“It was sort of a last-minute trip,” I said. “Some business to take care of down here.”
“Really? You told me you’d never, ever come back to D.C. Even to visit. Must have been something pretty important to get you out of New Hampshire.”
“Important enough.”
“So when are you going to take care of your business?”
“Already done.”
“Let me guess. Your quest to make everything right for your Diane Woods?”
“That’s right.”
“Guess I do know you, huh?” she asked. “So, when did you get to town?”
“Yesterday morning.”
Another “oh,” followed by “I see. So I was last on your schedule, then?”
“No,” I said, “I was saving the best for last.”
Her face was impassive on that one. More than ever, I felt out of sorts, out of place. Annie looked at her calendar and said, “Lewis, I’m already late for a status report, and I’m booked solid for the rest of the day, not even time for dinner. But maybe cocktails at eleven tonight, if things aren’t too crazy.”
“No, I’ve got something to say, Annie, and it shouldn’t take long.”
She leaned back in her chair. “Funny, I have something to say too. You first.”
I looked into that sweet, adorable face that I had spent so many long and delightful hours with, from cross-country skiing along deserted trails near the Atlantic Ocean, to trips to Fenway Park and gourmet meals at hidden restaurants in the North Shore. Hikes in the White Mountains and late nights watching old movies on TCM, and long, luscious, and soul-fulfilling hours in bed.
I took a breath. “I’m sorry, Annie, it’s not going to work. The two of us. This is your town now. Some time ago it was mine. I belonged here. I thrived here. But those days are long gone. I’ve been here less than two days, and I feel like I’m going to jump out of my skin, or that some car is going to run me down on Pennsylvania Avenue.”
I paused. She stayed quiet. I went on. “But I can’t ask, I can’t hope, I can’t expect you to head back north when the campaign ends. You’ve already told me that the Senator has promised you a future here, on his senate staff if he loses, on his presidential staff if he wins.”
“So glad you remembered,” she said, voice dry.
“You belong here now, Annie. Not me. So it’s not going to work.”
She slowly moved her pen around in a circle on her desk. “So you think it’s over.”
“Considering the few encounters we’ve had these past several weeks, and the quality of our conversations, I can’t see it being anything else.”
My mouth had dried out, my heart was slowly and heavily thumping along, and I waited.
Annie looked out the window, looked back at me. “Once again, you’ve led the way, my friend. As much as it pains me to say so, you’re right. It is over. And I just haven’t had the time or the guts to take a look at it.”