Gin let the smile fade as she wound past the cubicles and out through the reception area. What a nightmare of an interview. She couldn't imagine how it could have gone worse. What was Blair's problem? Was he threatened by her? Or was he looking for something from her? What can you say or do that will change my mind? What was that all about?
What had he expected her to do, lift her skirt?
She felt her jaw muscles bunch in anger. A little man with a little power equaled a big problem. Was this the way it was going to be?
She had the elevator down all to herself. She leaned against a side wall and fought the disappointment. Okay, so she probably wasn't going to get on the chairman's staff. She'd been prepared for that, not for a screw up like this, but for the real possibility that the senator wouldn't think he'd need her. There were six other members, no, check that, Congressman Lane had died in that car accident a while back. So at the moment there were five other legislators who were members of the Guidelines committee. As the ranking House member, Congressman Allard was the next obvious choice. Gin had set up a fail-safe appointment with him on Wednesday morning. Looked like she'd be keeping it.
She left the elevator and rounded the corner into the atrium. That was when she heard a man's voice from her left.
"Excuse me, but does the word Pasta' hold any special significance for you? " She froze. It was a name she hadn't heard since high school. A name she'd never wanted to hear again.
Gin turned. Him again. Or still. The blond guy in the suit. She now saw some fine linear scars across his forehead and down his right cheek that she hadn't noticed before. He was edging closer, staring at her face like the kids in pediatrics stared at "Where's Waldo" puzzles.
What was his problem?
But then she was struck by something familiar about him. If she imagined his hair four or five inches longer . . .
He stuck out his hand. "My God, it's really you. I don't know if you remember me from high school, but I'm, " The name leapt into her mind.
"Gerry! " She grasped his hand. "Gerry Canney! " "Right! I'm flattered you remember." Remember? How could she forget? Co-captain and quarterback for the football team, captain of the swim team, and an honor student to boot.
She'd had a monstrous crush on Gerry Canney all through Washington-Lee High in Arlington. She remembered positioning herself in the hall outside social studies after third period every day just to watch him stroll by. The scars on his face had wrought subtle changes on his looks, but he was still gorgeous.
"Yox're flattered I remember you? " she said. "I'm flabbergasted you remember me." He grinned. "I've got a great memory for faces. And who could forget a girl with a name like Pasta." He'd said it again.
She'd have to nip this in the bud.
"It's Gin, Gerry. Gin." He blinked. "Got you. I don't think I ever knew your real first name. Gin it is. But I barely recognized you.
You look great." He winced and waved his hands in the space between them, as if trying to erase The words. "Wait. That didn't come out right. I didn't mean, " "It's okay, " she laughed, placing a hand on his sleeve. "I understand. I'm not half the girl I used to be. And you . . . last time I saw you, you had huge sideburns and hair over your ears. ' He rubbed his clean-shaven cheeks. "Yeah. The seventi.
Can you believe how we dressed back then? But tell me, What've you been doing with yourself? " "I just finished an internal medicine residency."
"You're a doctor? That's great! " He glanced at his watch. "Look, I've been waiting down here to meet you since you walked in. I mean, I just had to see if it was really you. But now I'm late for a meeting and I've got to run. But let's get together soon."
"That'd be nice."
"How about tomorrow night? Are you free?
She sensed he was asking about more than just time
"Tomorrow? No, I'm moonlighting Tuesday night." She started a twelve-hour shift at Lynnbrook at eight.
"Wednesday night? " '"Sorry. Moonlighting again." But she didn't want to turn him down flat. "Maybe we could get together for an early bite before I go on duty. Or wait till Friday." '"Friday's a long way off. An early bite it will be. Anyplace special you'd like to go?
" "You schoose."
"Okay. I will." He pulled a small leather folder from his pocket and gave her two cards along with a pen. "Give me your number and I'll call when I think of an appropriate place." She wrote down her number and handed back the cards. He returned the bottom card to her.
"That one's for you. Call me any time you witness a federal crime. " He waved and moved off. "I'll call you tonight or tomorrow." And then he was hurrying through the glistening marble whiteness toward the exit. Gin glanced at his card, Gerald Canney, Special Agent, Federal Bgreav of Investigation.
She smiled. Gerry was an FBI man? Amazing. She'd always imagined him going into business. Who'd have ever thought? And now the former major heartthrob of Washington-Lee High wanted to take her out. Who'd ever believe that?
She just hoped they didn't wind up at a pasta place. That wouldn't be funny.
Pasta . . . when had she picked up that name? Freshman year?
Somewhere around the time her hormones had begun to flow. Overnight she'd seemed to balloon. It was horrible.
She couldn't squeeze into her clothes. Her breasts were growing, which was fine, but so were her thighs and hips and waistline. She hadn't changed her eating habits but her body seemed to have stopped burning off the calories she'd once been able to pack away. She'd gone from slightly above average to obese in less than a year. She'd wanted to die.
Her father couldn't see a problem, "There's more of you to love! " was definitely not a solution to her misery. Mama understood, and together they started a diet, but already it was too late. The school comedians couldn't resist "Pasta" Panzella.
She changed internally as well, becoming moody and reclusive. Looking back now, from the far side of a medical education, Gin realized Pasta had sunk into a clinical depression. She'd tell people she didn't care about her weight or what anybody called her, and to prove it, she'd b inge. Especially on lonely weekend nights. Primarily on chocolate.
Pasta loved chocolate. Chocolate cake, chocolate donuts, Hershey's with almonds, and Snickers. God, she loved Snickers. And bingeing only made her fatter, which made her even more depressed.
Pasta missed the junior and senior proms, and lots of other high-school activities in her self-imposed exile. The only bright spots in those dark days had been her novels and her part-time job in Dr. Lathram's office. Her grades began to slip but not enough to keep her out of the Ivy League.
The summer before going off to college she realized that she had a chance to start all over again. The kids in Princeton had never heard her called Pasta. She vowed that none of them ever would. She began a strict diet, no bulimia, no starvation, no trading one problem for another, just low fat and calorie restriction, plus a grueling exercise program. She remembered the constant hunger, the burning lungs, the aching legs as she forced her body to jog one more mile . . .
just one more. By the time she registered at Princeton she was proud to be merely overweight. According to her charts, her weight hit the fiftieth percentile for her age, height, and sex during sophomore year, as a junior she overshot and got too thin, so she backed off. When she graduated she was the person she wanted to be, She had her BS in biology, was on her way to U. of P. med school, and she liked what she saw in the mirror.
She'd maintained that weight through four years of med school and three years of residency. Pasta Panzella was gone.