Begin Again (19 page)

When the formal part of the presentation was over, Rafe said, “Now mingle, everybody. See what stellar work your classmates have done.” Displays of student art lined the walls. “And parents,
please browse, too. Congratulations to them all.”

The groups disbanded, and three little dark-haired, dark-eyed boys ran to where the Ludzecky family had gathered
.

Sal threw himself into Nia’s arms. “Mommy, I won!”

“I know, sweetheart. Congratulations.”

Sneaking around his mother, Ben went up to Adam and gave him a high-five. “We didn’t win. Mom told us last night we have other
talents.”

“But we’re glad Sal won,” Tommy put in. “I like his drawings.”

Adam ruffled Sal’s hair. “We’re happy for you, kid.”

Nia glanced up to see Rafe Castle approaching them. Before he greeted any of them, he knelt down so he was eye-level with Sal.
How thoughtful.
“You did good, Salvador. Just like your namesake.”

“What’s a namesake?” Ben asked.

Sal announced proudly, “Who
you’re named after.”

“Our Uncle Salvador?”

A male chuckle from the artist. “Nope. I told him I bet he has roots going back to Salvador Dali, the famous twentieth-century artist.”

“Like you, Rafe.” Nia noticed Sal used his first name. “You said maybe you got roots to…who was it?”

“A painter from the Renaissance time period. Raphael Sanzio da Urbino.”

“Yeah, that’s him.”

Standing, Rafe turned his gaze to Nia. “Mrs. Pettrone?”

Nia cleared her throat. Though she’d seen pictures of him online since the school chose him for this position, his physical presence was daunting. Those navy eyes focused on her, increasing their effect. “Yes, I’m Sal’s mother.”

“You’re son’s very talented.”

“So you said.”

“Rafe?”

Castle’s brows rose. “Adam? Hello.”

“You know my teacher, Adam?” Sal asked.

“We’ve met. And I saw his show at the Mitchell Gallery. I bought
The Dragon Within
. His work is amazing. So individualistic.”

“What does that mean?” Ben wanted to know.

“That everybody gets something different out of it,” Adam explained.

Her sister held out her hand. “I’m Paulina Pettrone.”

When he got a look at Paulina, Rafe startled.
“Wow, two of you? How do the men in the world stand it when you’re together?”

“Excuse me?” This from Nia.

“You must bowl them over.”

Paulina rolled her eyes. “It was a compliment, Nia. Say thanks.” She focused on the boys. “Let’s go see everybody’s art before we have to leave. Nia, take your time in getting back to work. No rush.”

“Could Sal go with you?” Rafe asked. “I’d like
to speak to Mrs. Pettrone in private.”

Nia stepped back.

“It’s all positive stuff.”

The four of them left, and Nia folded her arms across her chest, watching Rafe Castle. His dark hair was long and curly, and he carried himself in the confident, masculine way that men who looked like him seemed to have. “What did you want to talk about?”

“Salvador.”

“I appreciated your letter.”

“I meant every word, and more. Did you notice how his paintings and drawings evolved the last two weeks?”

“Yes, I did. Some got more realistic. Some more abstract. I liked the latter best.”

His eyes glistened like sapphires, as if she’s said the right thing. “I have a proposal for you. I’d like to continue working with Sal. Free of charge.”

“Why on earth would you do that? Adam
said you were hot.”

He winked at her. “I am.”

“Oh, I meant your reputation. But back to Sal.”

“He’s a prodigy. And that kind of talent needs to be cultivated.”

Feeling guilt take root inside her, she sighed. “I’ve thought about getting him art lessons, but we’re so busy…”

“I’ll come to your house. And yes, I’d expect an adult to supervise us, so you’d have to arrange that.”

“We live with my mother and sister. It wouldn’t be too hard to get coverage.” She raised her chin. “But I insist I pay.”

“Then I retract the offer.”

“What?”

“I won’t take your money.”

“Mr. Castle, I might be a widow, but we have enough funds to live on.”

His gaze darkened. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know Sal’s father died. He’s only talked about you, but…please, accept my condolences.”

Nia could feel her face redden. “No, let me apologize. I jumped the gun. The boys told us some things they overheard people saying about them not having a dad, and I’m too sensitive.”

“I don’t think you can be too sensitive about your kids.” He cocked his head. “So, the lessons?”

“I’ll think about it.”

His brows rose, indicating surprise at her statement. “All right.” He took out
a card and handed it to her. “Let me know.”

“One thing, Mr. Castle. Thanks for not asking in front of Sal.”

“Of course not. We’re buddies. He’ll want to do this. But it’s your decision. I respect that.”

“Do you have kids?”

“No, never married. So none yet.” A big male grin. “Someday, though.”

As he walked away, Nia stared at his long male stride. And okay, his butt, encased
in soft denim, and his broad shoulders in a chamois shirt. But that wasn’t the matter at hand. Now, once again, she’d have to make the right choice for her child alone. She wished Peter was here to help with that and a million other things. Which was enough to worry about. But more pressing was the issue that Nia had not gotten beyond her grief enough to move on like Paulina had and that was as big
an issue of the solo responsibility she now had.

SECRET SERVICE AGENT C.J. (Caterina) Ludzecky and her three colleagues hustled into New York City’s Memorial Hospital on the heels of the Second Lady and the vice president of the United States. Though she kept her emotions at bay when she was on the job, C.J. couldn’t help but empathize with Bailey O’Neil, the vice president’s wife of two years. She
remembered well the night her own father had died in an institution far too similar to this one. She’d been fifteen, and she and her brother, Lukasz, had taken it the hardest, probably because they were the oldest of his eight children. Briefly, C.J. wondered how Bailey’s brothers were faring. Embedded in her memory was the image of holding a weeping Luke in her arms. His vulnerability had crushed
her. She considered saying a prayer for this family, but dismissed the notion; she didn’t believe in that anymore.

The group of six reached the admittance desk and were met by a man dressed in an impeccable suit. “Mr. Vice President. Ms. O’Neil. I’m sorry to meet you under these circumstances. I’m James Jones. I manage New York Memorial.”

Bailey and Clay shook hands with the administrator.
“Thank you for coming in at this hour,” the vice president said.

C.J. watched Clay slide his arm around his wife’s shoulders; Bailey leaned into him. They had to be the most demonstrative political couple she’d ever encountered in the six years she’d been with the secret service. Their open affection for each other was often a topic of discussion among the who’s who in Washington—much of it
not always kind. Since Bailey was four months pregnant, Clay was even more attentive than usual.

As they spoke with the doctor, C.J. scanned the forty-by-forty hospital reception area. The other three agents did the same, though her partner, Mitch Calloway, who headed the Second Lady’s detail, and Tim Jenkins, the special agent in charge of the vice presidential force, moved in close to the
protectees.

“I’ll show you the way.” The hospital administrator glanced at the agents, then back to the Second Couple. “All of you, I guess.”

Calloway looked over at C.J. About forty, he had shrewd brown eyes and dark hair accented by a touch of gray at the temples. Nodding to the other side of the room, he signaled her to take note. A striking redheaded woman was arguing with a...uh-oh…a
man with a camera. Damn it, how had the media gotten wind of the vice president’s midnight trek on Marine Two, the VP helicopter, from Washington to New York? And how did they get past the uniformed guards at the entrance to the hospital? True, the service hadn’t had time to do any advance work because this was an emergency. But, still…

Irked, C.J. strode across the area. When she reached
the pair, their disagreement was in full swing.

The female stood tall on her three-inch heels. Apparently she was digging them in. “I said no, Ross. We’re not intruding on them. We’re leaving right now.”

“Yes,” C.J. said, drawing herself up to her full five-eight height. “You are.”

The cameraman, a wiry wrestler-type, peered over half glasses at her. “Yeah? Who says?”

Brushing
back the tailored jacket of her black suit, C.J. exposed her semiautomatic then flashed her badge. They could guess who she was by her suit and the American flag pin on her lapel, along with her earpiece, but a little show of force never hurt. “The United States Secret Service. No media here, hotshot.” She shook her head and let her usually even temper spike. “Can’t you people be humane for once?
This is a family emergency.”

“First Amendment gives us—”

The woman stepped forward, sending a fall of auburn hair into her eyes and perfume wafting toward C.J. “I’m Rachel Scott. Our TV station, WNYC, got a tip that Vice President Wainwright and his wife had arrived in town and were headed to Memorial. But we won’t intrude. Obviously a family member is more ill than we anticipated. We’ll
be leaving.”

“Thank you. I’ll follow you out.” C.J.’s comment was neutral, as she’d been trained in responding to questions.

Don’t confirm or deny the press’s comments. Usually they’re on a fishing expedition. If you agree with them, they’ll phrase it like you said the words.
Her first boss, David Anderson, had given her good advice on all aspects of being an agent. He’d been her mentor,
until he turned on her, which still made her furious, except that it led to her working with Mitch in the D.C. field office. When Mitch had gotten into the coveted VPPD, the Vice Presidential Protective Division, he’d often called on her to substitute for agents or when extra protection was needed. After a year, one of the Second Lady’s personal agents cycled out in the customary rotation of agents,
and Bailey had asked for C.J. to join their detail permanently. That was how she’d come to such a plum position with not even a decade in the service under her belt.

Because she saw to it that the press exited through the front door without taking any detours, and turned them over to the uniformed agents standing post outside, C.J. had to find her own way to the CCU. As she traversed the corridors,
she said into her wrist unit, part of the service’s restrictive radio network, “Reporters are history. I’m on my way back.”

“Understood,” Mitch said. “We’re at the CCU with Bulldog and Bright Star.”

Code names were given to protectees, usually indicative of their personalities. Clay Wainwright was known for fighting relentlessly for the rights of others, and Bailey was a standout on the
Hill because she didn’t play politics.

The smell of
hospital
assaulted C.J. as she made the trip upstairs. Antiseptic, ripe food and something best left unidentified abused her senses. She remembered the odors. She associated them with death. For Bailey’s sake, C.J. hoped her own visceral reaction was wrong this time.

Her three colleagues, Clay and Bailey were in the corridor outside of
CCU talking to a doctor whose tag read, Edward Crane,
Chief of Cardiology
. The vice president of the most powerful country in the world commanded top people’s attention. C.J. came up next to Mitch, who threw her a quick nod.

“Mr. O’Neil is resting now. We’ve given him a sedative.” The doctor’s voice was soothing.

“We’ve run some tests to assess his condition and make a determination on
how to proceed. I’ve called in our best cardiac surgeon and his team.” Glancing at his watch, he added, “I expect them any minute.”

Again, Bailey leaned into Clay. “What’s the prognosis?”

C.J. had to smile, despite the circumstances. Though she’d only been the Second Lady’s permanent shadow for a few months, she’d followed the news accounts of the woman’s whirlwind career as the wife of
the vice president. It was public knowledge that Bailey and Clay had a history; first, as a young district attorney, he’d put her in jail for harboring a criminal. After that, for almost a decade, they’d disagreed on the best way to stop youth gangs, and had battled out their different views in the newspapers. But two years ago, when they were assigned to the same task force by the governor of New
York, they’d fallen hard for each other, and thumbed their noses at the political world. From what C.J. understood, they’d fought like hell to be together. In any case, Bailey O’Neil was a perfect role model for teenage girls and women alike. C.J. truly valued her assignment protecting the Second Lady, even though there had been some nasty gossip about how she’d gotten the position.

The doctor
continued analyzing the patient’s condition. “It appears Mr. O’Neil had a major heart attack. Your brother tells us he had the classic symptoms—-chest pain, shortness of breath, discomfort in his arm. Mr. O’Neil, the son, called 911 and administered aspirin, which helped.”