They were in Richard's study on the first floor of the sprawling Grantham house. It had once been his father-in-law's study, his father's before that. Richard liked feeling a part of a tradition, even if it wasn't his own. He had no traditions in his family beyond whacks up the side of the head.
Jeremy Carver sat in the cranberry leather chair as if he owned it, yet Richard knew Carver's background was no better than his own. South Boston, six brothers and sisters, a scholarship to Georgetown. He was a natural for state and national politics.
Richard resisted pouring himself a scotch and sat opposite Carver on the plaid fabric-covered love seat. Carver, he noted, had the position of power in the room. Jeremy Carver was short, paunchy and gray-haired, five or ten years older than Richard, but he radiated self-confidence, a certainty that he was in the right place, doing the right thing.
As Carver settled back in the leather chair, Richard studied the man across from him. Richard knew he was in better condition. He worked out regularly, strenuously. He was taller, and if not handsome, not as pug-nosed and unprepossessing as Carver. He was better educated, worked in a field that gave him intimate knowledge of violent fanatics, amoral operatives. Terrorists, pure and simple, although there was little that was simple or pure about them, at least from his position as someone who studied them, tried to understand them. His work mired him in shades of gray, rationalizations, excuses, life experience, points of view and mind-sets that could justify mass murder.
Yet, despite all Richard knew, Jeremy Carver was just the sort of man who made him feel unaccomplished, as if he'd never gotten out of the faceless, middle-class subdivision where he'd grown up west of Boston.
"I'll come straight to the point," Carver said. "The senator wants to push for your Pentagon appointment."
Richard's heart skipped a beat, childishly. Of course the senator wanted him at the Pentagon. Why wouldn't he? He was the best. He was the right person for the job. "I'm grateful," he said simply.
Carver had no reaction. "Before the senator pitches his tent in your camp, he'll want to know there's nothing in your background that'll jump in his sleeping bag and bite him in the balls. Understood?"
"Of course."
The room was silent. Richard thought he could hear the creaking of Lauren's porch swing. She'd had a lot of wine already this evening. It wasn't like her. He pretended not to hear, instead watching Senator George Bowler's chief of staff. A high Pentagon appointment was just the beginning. Richard saw himself eventually as defense secretary, CIA director, perhaps even secretary of state. He was only fifty. There was time.
"So," Jeremy Carver said, rubbing the fine, soft leather with the fingertips of one hand, his hard eyes never leaving Richard, "tell me about Ike Grantham."
Four
It was chowder night at Jim's Place. By the time Tess slid onto the worn stool at the bar, her father had dipped her a heavy, shallow bowl of his famous clam chowder and set it in front of her. He had a bar towel slung over one powerful shoulder. "No beer for you tonight, Tess. You look done in."
"I am done in. It's been a long week."
The chowder was thick and steaming. Jim Haviland didn't skimp on the clams, and he didn't use canned. She watched the pat of butter melting into the milk. The good, simple fare and the old-fashioned pub atmosphere, with its dark, smooth wood and sparkling glasses, drew a diverse clientele, from construction workers and firefighters to university students and tech heads. Somerville might be on the road to gentrification, but not Jim's Place.
"You work too hard," her father told her.
"That's why I let you cook for me tonight."
"The hell it is."
He pinned his blue eyes on her, the same pale shade as her own, and she saw the jig was up. He knew about the carriage house. He had spies everywhere. Including Susanna Galway. Her grand-mother's place was just up the street, and she wasn't one to miss chowder night. Tess could imagine how it went. Often she and Susanna had chowder together, and when she didn't show up, her father would have asked where she was, and Susanna would have blurted, "Tess? Oh, she's up in Beacon-by-the-Sea checking out that damn carriage house of hers."
Tess hadn't told her father that Ike Grantham had paid her in the form of a haunted, run-down 1868 carriage house. Jim Haviland liked cash, too.
"You're here to fess up about that damn place up on the North Shore. Tess. Jesus. A falling-down carriage house?"
She let her satchel slide to the floor. "Susanna?"
"No, couldn't get a damn word out of her. I knew something was up, though."
"Davey."
Her father's mouth snapped shut. Tess groaned. She should have expected as much. Davey Ahearn was on his stool at the opposite end of the bar. He was a twice-divorced plumber, her father's lifelong friend and a constant burr in Tess's side. He took his role as her godfather far too seriously. She knew he was listening to every word between her and her father. "Damn plumbers. They mind everyone's business but their own."
"Hey," Davey said. "What're you saying about plumbers?"
Tess pointed at him with her soupspoon. "I'm saying you've all got big mouths."
"This has nothing to do with me being a plumber."
So that was it. Susanna had told Davey, and Davey had told her father. Or Susanna had told her grandmother and word had gotten out that way. That was one thing Tess had learned long ago about life in her neighborhood: word got out. She'd driven straight home from Beacon-by-the-Sea, jumped in the shower and hopped on the subway. And still word of her af-ternoon's adventures had arrived at Jim's Place before she had.
"Somebody has to tell Jimmy here what's going on," Davey said.
"And somebody could give me half a chance to tell Jimmy myself."
"Half a chance?" Davey snorted. He was a beefy man with a huge salt-and-pepper mustache and an amazing capacity for physical labor. His friends liked to joke he would die with a plunger in his hands. "You've had this place for a year. You've had a hell of a lot more than half a chance."
This was true. Tess returned to her soup. That Davey and her father could get away with treating her as if she were eleven years old was a feat on their part. Not that she put up with it.
"You've got yourself a mess, Tess," Davey said. "A damn barn. You know what barns have? Barns have snakes."
"It's an antique carriage house."
Her father pointed a callused finger at her. "Don't move. I have to wait on a customer."
"I'm not moving until I finish my soup. I don't care what you and Davey say."
"Truer words never spoken right there," her father grumbled.
Tess spooned up plump clams, potatoes, buttery milk. She'd worry about her fat intake another day. The Red Sox were playing the Yankees on a television above the bar. It was a home game. The patrons of Jim's Place didn't like the idea of shutting down Fenway, building a new park. But that was the nature of things, Tess thought with a fresh rush of frustration. They change. Even in her father's neighborhood. Even with his daughter.
At the tables behind her, a group of about a half-dozen men were arguing over who was the greatest president of the twentieth century. "Ronnie Reagan." A dark, young construction worker raised his beer glass in solemn homage. "Bow your heads when you say his name."
"No way. FDR was the man."
"Harry Truman."
Davey shook his head and glanced back at the men, all younger than he was by two decades or more. He weighed in, deadpan. "Adlai Stevenson."
"Get out. He was never president."
"Should have been," Davey said.
A kid in dusty overalls frowned. "Who the hell's Adlai Stevenson?"
"Ignoramus," his friend, the one who'd named Reagan, said. "He was that-who the hell was Adlai Stevenson?"
Davey sighed as Jim Haviland came back around the bar. "Country's doomed, Jimmy. Your daughter's stuck with an old barn that has snakes, and these dumb bastards never heard of Adlai Stevenson."