"And now," Betsy said, closing the book and laying it beside Kathy's bed, "it's time for my little wizard to hit the hay."
"Can't you read one more chapter?" Kathy begged.
"No, I cannot read another chapter," Betsy said, giving Kathy a hug. "I already read you one more than you were entitled to. Enough is enough."
"You're mean, Mommy," Kathy said, with a smile Betsy could not see because her cheek was against Kathy's baby-soft hair.
"That's tough. You're stuck with the world's meanest mommy and there's nothing you can do about it." Betsy kissed Kathy's forehead, then sat up. "Now get to bed. I'll see you in the morning."
"Night, mom. "Kathy rolled onto her side and wrestled Oliver, an i oversized, stuffed skunk, into position against her chest.
"Night, hon."
Betsy closed the door of Kathy's room behind her and went into the kitchen to wash the dishes. Although she would never admit it to her feminist friends, Betsy loved washing dishes. It was perfect therapy. A lawyer's day was littered with stressful situations and insoluble problems. Washing dishes was a finite task that Betsy could do perfectly every time she tried. Instant gratification from a job well done, over and over again. And Betsy needed Some instant gratification after being with Rick.
She knew why he was so angry. Rick had been a superstar in law school and Donovan, Chastain and Mills had lured him to their two hundred-lawyer sweatshop with a large salary and glowing promises of a fast track to a partnership. The firm had worked him like a dog, constantly holding the partnership just out of reach. When he was passed over last year, just as her career was starting to take off, it had been a crushing blow to his ego.
Their ten-year-old marriage had not been able to withstand the strain.
Two months ago, when Rick told her he was leaving, Betsy was stunned.
She knew they had problems, but she'd never imagined that he would walk out. Betsy had searched her memory for a clue to Rick's jealousy. Had he changed or was he always so self-centered? Betsy had trouble believing that Rick's love was too fragile to withstand her success, but she was not willing to give up her career to appease his ego. Why should she?
The way she saw it, it was a matter of Rick accepting her as an equal.
If he couldn't do that then she could never stay married to him. If he loved her, it should not be such a hard thing to do. She was proud of his achievements.
Why couldn't he be proud of hers?
Betsy poured herself a glass of milk and turned off the light. The kitchen joined the rest of the house in soothing darkness. Betsy carried her glass to the kitchen table and slumped into a chair. She took a sip and gazed sleepily out the window. Many of the houses in the neighborhood were dark. A streetlight cast a pale glow over a corner of the front yard. It was so quiet with Rick gone and Kathy asleep. No traffic sounds outside, no television on. None of the little noises people make shuffling around a house.
Betsy had handled enough divorces to know that many estranged husbands would never have done what Rick had done for her tonight. He had done it for Kathy, because he loved her. And Kathy loved Rick. The separation was very hard on their daughter. There were times, like now, when the house was quiet and Betsy was alone, that she missed Rick. She was not certain she loved him anymore, but she remembered bow good it had been.
Sleeping alone was the hardest thing. She missed the lovemaking, but she missed the cuddling and the pillow talk more. Sometimes she thought they might get back together. Tonight, before Rick left, she was certain that there was something be wanted to tell her. What was he about to say? And if he said he wanted her back, what would she say? After all, he was the one who had walked out on ten years of marriage, a child, their life together.
They were a family and Rick's actions told her that meant nothing to him.
The night Rick walked out, alone in bed, when she Couldn't cry anymore, Betsy had rolled on her side and stared at their wedding picture. Rick was grinning. He had told her he had never been so happy. She had been so filled with joy, she was afraid she could not hold all of it. How could a feeling like that disappear?
Chapter Four.
"Late night?" Wayne Turner's secretary asked, trying, unsuccessfully, to conceal a grin.
"it shows, huh?
"Only to those who know how perky you usually look."
The night before, Turner, Senator Raymond Colby's administrative assistant, had gotten stinking drunk celebrating the senator's nomination to the Supreme Court.
This morning he was paying for his sins, but he didn't mind. He was happy for the old gent, who had done so much for him. His only regret was that Colby had not run for President. He would have made a great one.
Turner was five feet nine and slender. He had a narrow face, high cheekbones, close-cropped, kinky black hair that was graying at the temples and brown skin a few shades darker than his tan suit. Turner weighed about what he had when he first met Colby. He hadn't lost his intensity, but the scowl that used to be a permanent feature had wilted over the years. Turner hung his jacket on a hook behind the door, lit his fourth Winston of the day and sat behind his cluttered desk. Framed in the window at his back was the shining, white dome of the Capitol.
Turner shuffled through his messages. Many were from reporters who wanted the inside scoop on Colby's nomination. Some were from a.a.s for other senators who were probably calling about Colby's crime bill. A few were from partners in prestigious Washington law firms, confirmation that Turner need not be worried about what he would do after the senator became Chief justice.
Washington power brokers were always interested in someone who had the ear of a powerful man. Turner would do all right, but he would miss working with the senator.
The last message in the stack caught Turner's eye. It was from Nancy Gordon, one of the few people whose call he would have returned yesterday afternoon if he had made it back to the office. Turner assumed she was calling about the nomination. There was a Hunter's Point, New York, number on the message slip.
"It's Wayne," he said when he heard the familiar voice at the other end.
"How you doin'?"
"He's surfaced," Gordon answered without any preliminaries. It took Turner a few seconds to catch on, then he felt sick.
"Where?"
"Portland, Oregon."
"How do you know?"
She told him. When she was through, Turner asked,
"What are you going to do?"
"There's a flight to Portland leaving in two hours."
"Why do you think he started again?"
"I'm surprised he held out for so long," Gordon answered.
"When did you get the letter?"
"Yesterday, around four. I just came on shift."
"You know about the senator?"
"Heard it on the news."
"Do you think there's a connection? The timing, I mean. It seems odd it would be so soon after the President made the announcement."
"There could be a connection. I don't know. And I don't want to jump to conclusions."
"Have you called Frank?" Turner asked.
"Not yet."
"Do it. Let him know."
"All right."
"Shit. This is the absolute, worst possible time for this to happen."
"You're worried about the senator?"
"of course."
"What about the women?" Gordon asked coldly.
"Don't lay that trip on me, Nancy. You know damn well I care about the women, but Colby is my best friend.
Can you keep him out of it?"
"I will if I can."
Turner was sweating. The plastic receiver was uncomfortable against his ear.
"What will you do when you find him?" he asked nervously. Gordon did not answer immediately. Turner could hear her breathing deeply.
"Nancy?"
"I'll do what I have to."