Maitland interrupted. “And the governor would be delighted if you could start today. How about trying the welcome desk, downstairs in the main lobby? Sit right up front. Meet everyone who comes in.”
“I’m ready as I’ll ever be,” Kenna said. “The welcome desk sounds lovely.”
“The welcome desk is not as easy as it looks, Mr. Maitland.” Deenie was frowning.
“You know what, Denise? I’ll just take her downstairs myself,” Maitland said. Case closed. “I’d like to get Mrs. Wilkes in place before everyone gets back from the rally.”
Maitland approached the door to the corridor. He turned to Kenna. “Ready? You’ll be the first person everyone sees when they arrive at campaign headquarters. Hope you don’t mind being the new girl.”
The new girl? That was one way of putting it. “Actually,” she said, “I’d love to run over to that rally first. See it all firsthand? Then come back later?”
She looked at Maitland expectantly. Deenie must be beyond confused.
“Wonderful.” He beamed, as if Kenna had the most brilliant idea ever. “In fact, here’s an idea. I’ll walk over to the Esplanade with you.”
Maitland gestured Kenna through the door, then turned back to the secretary.
“Mrs. Wilkes will be back after the rally.” He stabbed a stubby finger toward the girl, now barricaded behind her desk. “Remember, Deenie, the governor says we’re to give her anything she needs.”
9
“Hey! You two. Ya don’t see the ropes?” The cop, a tank in sunglasses, waved off Kiernan and Jane, shepherding them away from the Esplanade stage. “This is as far as the both of you go.”
Clutching her tote bag under one arm, Jane was banged and buffeted by Lassiter supporters grabbing their chance for an up-close moment with their political choice. They’d pushed themselves against the metal-stanchioned rope line, where a row of officers in blue, arms linked, stood between them and the huge wooden platform. A lofty half dome, intricately paneled, formed a partial ceiling over the flat of the stage.
Mammoth video screens gave a larger-than-life view to the people stuck far in the back. Sousa marches at mega-decibels blasted over the sound system.
Lassiter himself, his head and shoulders leaning precariously over the left edge of the stage, reveled in the spotlight, waving, using one hand to shake the outstretched palms of the increasingly demanding crowd.
Impossible to get any louder. “Crazy,” Jane whispered. She was only half joking. The event was verging on out of control. “Maybe we should-”
“Campaign staff!” Trevor Kiernan stepped in front of her, almost shouting to be heard, showing the scowling blue uniform a collection of plastic-laminated badges on the lanyard around his neck. “I’m good to go through. And she’s press. She’s with me.”
He turned quickly, drew her forward. “Jane! Got a pass? Show the man.”
“Lass-i-ter. Lass-i-ter.” The crowd’s chanting grew louder as a crush of bodies pressed toward the stage. A few toddlers rode high on their parents’ shoulders. One pinafored girl, her little Lassiter baseball cap askew, dissolved in tears as her dad pushed to get closer.
Jane held up the new bright blue plastic badge she wore on an aluminum-linked chain. It showed her photo and the insignia of the Massachusetts State Police. “Channel- I mean, Boston Register. Okay?”
“Yikes,” she said, trotting after Kiernan. “Is it always like this?”
He hurried her past a bank of temporary wooden risers, television cameras on tripods lined one end to the other, set up to hold the reporters covering the event. She tried to pick out Channel 11’s camera, see who they’d assigned, but couldn’t. Well, tough. Now I’m getting even closer than they can.
She followed Kiernan up three concrete steps at the side of the stage. He punched in a passcode on an electronic lock, then led her through a door hidden in the black-painted wall. The backstage entrance led to a shadowy concrete-walled corridor. Up a few more narrow stairs, around a corner, and-the daylight blasted her, so bright and surprising, she stumbled backwards. Hidden behind the curved proscenium wall, they had the candidate’s eye view of the crowd. And that view, Jane realized, must be intoxicating.
The colors. The signs. The cheering throng of voters. Adoring. Pulsing closer. Demanding attention. Calling his name. Some held their cameras high above their heads, capturing whatever memories they could.
“Watch,” Kiernan said. “I’ll stay right here. Off the record, right?”
“Ah, sure,” Jane replied. What the hell?
Above her head, lofty metal poles held banks of spotlights and draping loops of wires. Thick cables, wrapped in duct tape, snaked across the concrete floor. It was darker here, the explosive light outside turning backstage into background.
People stood in groups of twos and threes. Campaign workers, Jane figured, insider enough to have special passes. Most clutched files or clipboards, plastic water bottles. Some wore suits and heels, others jeans. All wore Lassiter buttons. All eyes fastened on the candidate.
Jane could see only Lassiter’s back, moving slowly to the other side of the stage. The police linked themselves in a wavering blue line.
“Hey, Trev, goin’ great, man. Almost time. Gotta love it.” A harried-looking man with a clipboard gave Kiernan a thumbs-up, then disappeared behind the flashing red and green lights of the elaborate sound system.
Kiernan pointed to Lassiter. “Okay, Jane. Any second now.”
“’Scuse me, ’scuse me, ’scuse me.” She was late, she was late. The subway ride had taken too long and the walk from Park Street station had taken too long, and her darling new kitten heels kept catching in the Esplanade’s thick grass. Would she be too late? How did this happen? She’d planned it so perfectly.
Holly elbowed her way closer to the Esplanade stage, hardly noticing the bodies surging around her, her eyes on the prize.
Owen Lassiter. On the stage, hand outstretched, that smile. She promised to be here. And now she was. Everything would be okay. Happy endings.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry.” She forced a smile of her own, relieved, needing to stay polite as she edged through, some guys looking her up and down, as always. She ignored them. As always.
The wooden reporter’s thing was set up to the left of the stage this time. Perfect. She aimed herself in that direction, propelled toward the cameras. Still photographers were posted there, too, she knew. Good. She had her own camera, out and ready to go. Too risky to leave it in its pouch.
Almost there. Almost time.
“Lucky you could get away.” Kenna slid her hand through the crook of Maitland’s elbow as a black-suited security guard waved them toward the back entrance to the big stage. “I’d never have gotten up here this close without you.”
“No problem.” Maitland guided her past a phalanx of rent-a-guards, then up close to one side of the stage.
“We going up there?” Kenna asked. The sun was hot, almost too hot to keep her coat on. Should have left it with Deenie. “Could we go backstage? Maybe I could chat with Owe-the governor-when he’s finished.”
Maitland looked at his watch, then seemed to listen. He smiled. “It’s already ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy,’” he said.
“Huh? Yankee-? Come on. You can get me closer.”
“We’re too late to go backstage.” He draped his arm across her shoulders, guiding her. “But come this way. You’ll see.”
“What?” Jane asked. Trevor stood next to her, elbow to elbow, backstage. “Watch what?”