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“You watch out for yourself, ace. And try to behave.”
Lucy bit down on her lip and looked away.
Finally he moved toward Nealy, but everyone was watching them, and there was nothing left to say. His eyes clouded, and his voice had a rasp. “Have a good life, Nealy.”
She managed a stiff nod, turned to Lucy, and took the baby. Then she stepped back into the world she knew too well.
Cornelia Case had come in from the cold.
21
“HOLLINGS HAS BEEN in the Senate for twelve years, Cornelia! I forbid you to go any farther with this nonsense.”
Nealy rubbed her eyes wearily, then looked up from her satinwood desk at James Litchfield. Her office was located in a sunny room at the rear of the Georgian home that had once belonged to Dennis, but now belonged to her. The estate sat on twenty wooded acres in Middleburg, the heart of Virginia hunt country. She’d always loved the place more than Dennis, who’d preferred Washington, and now she’d made it her permanent home.
The office was one of her favorite rooms—creamy walls with chalk-white trim, a mishmash of good antiques, and a cozy fireplace. Soft floral draperies hung at long, rectangular windows that looked out over a lush stretch of trees just beginning to wear fall colors.
She set down her pen. “Hollings is an idiot, and the people of Virginia deserve better. What did you put in your mouth, you little dickens?”
Button had been playing on the English needlepoint rug. Its delicate moss and rose pattern was strewn with a collection of her toys, along with a cardboard toilet paper roll, an empty oatmeal box, and kitchen measuring cups. Her eyes were innocent as she returned Nealy’s gaze, but her cheeks bulged with contraband, probably part of the dinner roll she’d been carrying around the day before.
“Take
that away from her, Dad.”
Litchfield regarded the baby severely. “Give it to me, Beatrice.”
“Nah!”
Fortunately, Button’s exclamation discharged the chunk of roll. In a motion as elegant as the sweep of a polo mallet, Litchfield whipped a snowy handkerchief from the pocket of his slacks, picked up the gummy dough, and deposited it in the wastebasket that sat on top of Nealy’s credenza, away from toddler temptation.
“Hollings may not be the best senator we have, but he’s always been loyal to the party, and he’s extremely upset.”
She and her father had been arguing over her decision to run for the Senate ever since she’d made up her mind last month. Now she leaned back in her chair and propped one of her stockinged feet on Squid, who was curled beneath her desk. “Then find some other way to reward him because I’m going after his seat in the primary.”
“Not without my support, you won’t!”
“Dad,” she said, as gently as she could, “I don’t need your support.”
The office door banged open and Lucy rushed in—teenage cavalry to the rescue. “I’m home.”
“So I see.” Nealy smiled at her very protective new daughter-to-be.
She looked like most of the other fourteen-year-olds in the private school the two of them had chosen for its excellent academics and democratic atmosphere: draw-string pants, skimpy dark brown sweater, ugly thick-soled shoes, and too many ear-pierces. But Lucy’s fresh young beauty shone through.
She wore her shiny brown hair in a funky little cut with a pair of small oval barrettes holding back her bangs. The complexion problems that tormented so many girls her age had passed Lucy by, and her sweet, smooth skin was mercifully free of the thick cosmetics she’d once hidden behind. Her fingernails were no longer bitten to the quick, and she held herself with new assurance. Nealy’s heart swelled with pride.
Lucy studiously ignored James Litchfield as she marched over to stand next to her. “So . . . do you want to come listen to my new CD?”
Nealy had already listened to Lucy’s new CD, and she wasn’t fooled. “Later, honey. Dad and I are discussing my political future.” And then, just to stir things up . . . “He’s still fighting me about going after Hollings’s seat.”
“Really, Cornelia, Lucille’s much too young to understand this. I hardly think she’s interested.”
“I’m very interested,” Lucille shot back. “I even get to work on the campaign.”
He gave a dismissive sniff. “You know nothing at all about campaigning.”
“I know that some of the seniors at my school are eighteen, which means they can vote. And all the kids my age have parents who vote. Me and Mom are working on a brochure just for teenagers so they’ll understand what their senator does.”
