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“No, I don’t need any money,” she said tightly as she sat down in the chair opposite his desk. “As you suggested, I went to the bank and signed a new card. I explained about the change in my handwriting,” she said, flexing her right hand. “So I can write a check against the account whenever I get low on cash.”
“So, why are you here?”
“I need something else.”
“What’s that?”
“Something to do.”
Her unexpected statement served its purpose. It won her his undivided attention. Skeptically holding her stare, he leaned back in his chair and raised his boots to the corner of his desk. “Something to do?”
“That’s right.”
He laced his fingers together across his belt buckle. “I’m listening.”
“I’m bored, Tate.” Her frustration boiled over. Restlessly, she left the chair. “I’m stuck out there on the ranch all day with nothing productive to do. I’m sick of being idle. My mind’s turning to mush. I’m actually beginning to discuss the soap operas with Mona.”
As she aimlessly roamed his office, she made note of several things—primarily that there were framed photographs of Mandy everywhere, but none of Carole.
Framed diplomas and photographs were attractively arranged on the wall behind the credenza. Looking for clues into his past, she paused in front of an eight-by-ten blowup of a snapshot taken in Vietnam.
Tate and Eddy were standing in front of a jet bomber, their arms draped across each other’s shoulders in a pose of camaraderie. One’s grin was as cocky as the other’s. Avery had inadvertently learned that they’d been college roommates until Tate had postponed his education to enlist in the air force. Until now, she hadn’t realized that Eddy had accompanied him to war.
“Since when have you been concerned with your mind?” he asked her, bringing her around.
“I need activity.”
“Join an aerobics class.”
“I did—the same day the doctor examined my tibia and gave me the go-ahead. But the class only lasts one hour three times a week.”
“Join another one.”
“Tate!”
“What? What the hell is all this about?”
“I’m trying to tell you. You’re stubbornly refusing to listen.”
He glanced at the closed door, mindful of the secretary seated just beyond it. Lowering his voice, he said, “You enjoy riding, but you haven’t saddled up once since you got home.”
No, she hadn’t. Avery enjoyed riding, too, but she didn’t know how good an equestrian Carole had been and hadn’t wanted to tip her hand by being either too adept or too inexperienced.
“I’ve lost interest,” she said lamely.
“I thought you would,” he said sardonically, “just as soon as you cut the price tags off all that expensive gear.”
Avery had seen the riding clothes in Carole’s closet and wondered if she had ever actually worn the jodhpurs and short, tailored jacket. “I’ll go back to it eventually.” Giving herself time to collect her thoughts, she gazed at a picture of Nelson with Lyndon B. Johnson while he was still a congressman. Impressive.
There were several photos of Nelson in uniform, providing her a chronicle of his military career. One picture in particular caught her eye because it was reminiscent of the snapshot of Tate and Eddy.
In the photo, Nelson’s arm was draped companionably around another air force cadet—a young man as strikingly handsome and cavalier as young Nelson. Looming in the background, like a behemoth, was a monstrous bomber plane. Typed neatly across the bottom of the photograph was “Majors Nelson Rutledge and Bryan Tate, South Korea, 1951.”
Bryan Tate. A relative of Nelson’s? A friend? Presumably, because Nelson had named his son after him.
Avery turned again to face him, trying not to show more interest in the photograph than it should warrant for someone already familiar with it. “Put me to work at campaign headquarters.”
“No.”
