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“Beer.”
“How were things at the hospital?”
“He told Carole about her injuries,” Jack said before Tate had a chance to answer.
“Oh?” Nelson lifted a wedge of steaming pizza to his mouth and took a bite. Around it, he mumbled, “Are you sure that was wise?”
“No. But if I were where she is, I’d want to know what the hell was going on, wouldn’t you?”
“I suppose.” Nelson took a sip of the beer Tate had brought him. “How was your mother when you left?”
“Worn out. I begged her to come back here and let me stay with Mandy tonight, but she said they were into their routine now, and for Mandy’s sake, she didn’t want to break it.”
“That’s what she told you,” Nelson said. “But she probably took one look at you and decided that you needed a good night’s sleep more than she does. You’re the one who’s worn out.”
“That’s what I told him,” Jack said.
“Well, maybe the pizza will help revive me.” Tate tried to inject some humor into his voice.
“Don’t make light of our advice, Tate,” Nelson warned sternly. “You can’t let your own health deteriorate.”
“I don’t intend to.” He saluted them with his can of beer, drank from it, then solemnly added, “Now that Carole’s regained consciousness and knows what’s ahead of her, I’ll rest better.”
“It’s going to be a long haul. For everybody,” Jack remarked.
“I’m glad you brought that up, Jack.” Tate blotted his mouth with a paper napkin and mentally braced himself. He was about to test their mettle. “Maybe I should wait another six years to run for office.”
For the beat of several seconds, there was an air of suspended animation around the table, then Nelson and Jack spoke simultaneously, each trying to make himself heard over the other.
“You can’t make a decision like that until you see how her operation goes.”
“What about all the work we’ve put in?”
“Too many folks are counting on you.”
“Don’t even think of quitting now, little brother. This election is the one.”
Tate held up his hands for silence. “You know how badly I want it. Jesus, all I’ve ever wanted to be was a legislator. But I can’t sacrifice the welfare of my family to anything, even my political career.”
“Carole doesn’t deserve that kind of consideration from you.”
Tate’s razor-sharp gray eyes found his brother’s. “She’s my wife,” he enunciated.
Another taut silence ensued. Clearing his throat, Nelson said, “Of course, you must be at Carole’s side as much as possible during the ordeal she’s facing. It’s admirable of you to think of her first and your political career second. I would expect that kind of unselfishness from you.”
To emphasize his next point, Nelson leaned across the ravaged pizza that had been opened over the small, round table. “But remember how much Carole herself encouraged you to throw your hat into the ring. I think she would be terribly upset if you withdrew from the race on her account. Terribly upset,” he said, jabbing the space between them with his blunt index finger.
“And looking at it from a very cold and crass viewpoint,” he went on, “this unfortunate accident might be turned to our advantage. It’ll generate free publicity.”
Disgusted by the observation, Tate tossed down his wadded napkin and left his chair. For several moments he prowled aimlessly around the room. “Did you confer with Eddy on this? Because he said virtually the same thing when I called him earlier to discuss it.”
“He’s your campaign manager.” Jack had turned pale and speechless at the thought that his brother might give up before his campaign even got off the ground. “He’s paid to give you good advice.”
“Harp on me, you mean.”
“Eddy wants to see Tate Rutledge become a United States senator, just like all the rest of us, and his desire for that has nothing to do with the salary he draws.” Smiling broadly, Nelson got up and slapped Tate on the back. “You’ll run in the November election. Carole would be the first in line to encourage you to.”
“All right then,” Tate said evenly. “I had to know that I could depend on your unqualified support. The demands placed on me in the coming months will be all I can handle, and then some.”
