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She returned her phone to the brown leather tote she carried instead of a purse, then clipped her gold earring back on. For her press conference, she was wearing a soft butterscotch wool Armani sheath with a silk scarf knotted at her throat. The untidy haircut she’d worn on the road had been reshaped by her longtime hairdresser so that it looked sophisticated, but still contemporary. She’d decided to keep it short, just as she’d decided to keep her color natural. They were small changes, but to her they were significant. Each change was a sign that she had finally taken control of her life, which was why she couldn’t let Mat force her into a meeting that would only cause her grief.
She pulled out her leather portfolio and studied the notes she’d been compiling for the past three months. They no longer made sense. Since Mat was so determined to speak with her, why hadn’t he used the most obvious means at his disposal? Why hadn’t he threatened to call a halt to the adoption if she refused to meet with him?
Because something that ugly would never have occurred to him.
“We’re here, Mrs. Case.”
She realized they’d arrived at the hotel. The butterflies in her stomach began to tango as she put her notes away, then let the agent open the door for her.
A cluster of photographers waited, along with Jim Millington, a crusty Georgia-born political handler with a Deep South accent. “We’ve got ourselves a full house,” he whispered, as he took her tote from her. “Reporters from all over the country. You ready to rumble?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
Jim led her into the ballroom, which was filled with far more reporters than anyone else’s primary campaign could attract. Nobody went through free food faster than the press, and the food tables looked as though they’d been attacked.
Terry approached her just as the speakers began playing Van Halen’s “Right Now.” A fist squeezed her heart. It had been Dennis’s campaign song and now it was hers. She and Terry had debated using it, but in the end they knew it would be both a tribute and a symbol of transition.
Terry took her arm. “Steady, babe.”
“Hearing that song . . .”
“I know. God, he’d love watching you do this.” She smiled at her chubby, rumpled friend. He looked better than he had at any time since Dennis’s death. This campaign was good for him.
With Terry and Jim just behind her, she smiled, waved, and worked her way through the crowd to the platform at the front of the room. Her father was already there, along with other party leaders. One of them, a popular local congressman, stepped to the microphone and introduced her.
The reporters applauded politely, and her campaign workers cheered. She moved to the microphone and began her thank-yous. Then she launched into the heart of her speech.
“Most of you know why I called this press conference. Usually political candidates say they’ve thought long and hard before they decide to run for office. I didn’t have to do that. This is something I’ve wanted for a long time, although I didn’t realize how much until recently.” She made a few brief references to the proud history of Virginia and the need for strong
leadership in a new millennium. Then she declared her intention of challenging Jack Hollings in the June primary.
“. . . and so today I am officially stepping into the ring and asking the wonderful people of the Commonwealth of Virginia to honor me with their trust and elect me as their next United States Senator.” The cameras flashed and television reporters spoke into their microphones over the applause. When the room finally quieted, she began outlining the major issues she’d be campaigning on, then cocked her head to take questions. Up until now, she’d been scripted. It was time to think on her feet.
“Callie Burns, Richmond Times-Dispatch. Mrs. Case, how does your decision to run for office relate to your disappearance?”
It was a question she’d expected. Reporters knew their readers were more interested right now in her personal life than her political views. “Getting away from the White House gave me a chance to put my life in perspective . . .” Her preparation had paid off, and she had no trouble answering.
“Harry Jenkins, Roanoke Times. You’ve made no secret of your dissatisfaction with political life. Why work so hard to get back into it?”
“As First Lady, I had no real power to effect change . . .”
One question followed another. Although she’d been expecting it, she was still disappointed that so few dealt with the issues.
Suddenly a deep voice rang out above the others. “Mat Jorik, Chicago Standard.”
She stiffened. The ballroom instantly quieted as everyone tried to locate the source of that voice.
Mat stepped out from behind one of the square pillars at the back of the ballroom. He’d tucked one hand into the pocket of his slacks, and a well-worn brown leather bomber jacket hung open over his shirt. Even from a distance, he seemed to fill up the room—all big body, commanding voice, and rough edges.
A thousand images flashed through her mind. Her fingers tightened on the corner of the podium as she tried to push them away and stay focused. She heard herself speak in a voice that was almost steady. “Hello, Mat.”
The crowd buzzed. Cameras flashed. His presence was a story all its own.
He nodded. Curt. Down to business. “You said you were going to focus your campaign on economic issues. Could you be more specific?”
She somehow managed her public smile. “Thank you for giving me the opportunity to talk about a topic of vital importance to the people of Virginia . . .”
Even with Mat staring her down, she somehow managed to launch into the remarks she’d prepared, but she’d barely finished before he came at her with a follow-up question. When she’d finished responding, another reporter jumped in with a question about the Balkans. Mat kept silent after that, but he stayed where he was—arms crossed, one shoulder resting against the pillar behind him, never taking his eyes off her.
