The Senator's Wife (8 page)

“Yes,” she said unwillingly, allowing him to steer her toward an old-fashioned wooden porch swing hanging in the shadow of a tall oak. “But …”

“Then let’s talk this out.”

They reached shade and swing and Ronnie sat, not entirely of her own accord. The swing swayed beneath her. A sudden breeze was pleasantly cool as it touched her face. A huge bumblebee buzzed past. Tobacco growing in a nearby field rustled as the breeze turned into a gust of wind. The swing swayed again, and Ronnie looked up to discover Quinlan’s hand wrapped around the chain.

“I’m on your side,” he told her, standing over her, his expression serious. “Just because I know Marsden and Joanie and Laura doesn’t mean a thing. I’m here to help
you
. Everything that passes between you and me is confidential. I won’t go bearing tales on you to anyone. Any suggestion of mine that you don’t like, all you have to do is say no. But I get paid to make the suggestions. Now, you think about that, and you decide if you still want to fire me. If you do, I’ll quit. On the other hand, if you think we can work together despite the fact that I know your in-laws and I think your hair’s too red and you’re sexy, I’ll do my best for you. And my best is pretty damned good, if I do say so myself.” He paused. “It’s your call.”

Chapter
8

R
ONNIE’S TEMPER
, always quick to ignite and just as quick to burn itself out, had already cooled. The old saw about someone being able to charm the birds from the trees flitted through her mind as she looked up at him. He smiled at her beguilingly.

“Will you really quit if I want you to?” Unwilling to be won over so easily, Ronnie decided to make him work for it.

“Absolutely.”

“Anytime?”

“All you have to do is say the word.”

“And you won’t get mad if I don’t want to follow your advice? You won’t go running to Lewis or Marsden or any of the campaign people to complain?”

“Nope.”

“If you do, I will fire you.” It was a warning, delivered with appropriate sternness.

“Understood.”

Ronnie surrendered, though with a frown and a glinting look up at him. “Then I guess we can give it a try.”

“Thank you.” He looked down at her for a moment, then asked gravely, “So the pregnancy thing is definitely out?”

Ronnie stiffened. Her eyes narrowed.

“Just kidding,” he said, and grinned. “Okay, that’s out. No pregnancy. And I take it you don’t want to tone down your hair. To mouse brown, or something.”

“No!” The truth was, although her hair was naturally dark auburn, she had her hairdresser enhance the color monthly. But that was something she preferred to keep to herself. Certainly it was not anything he needed to know.

“How about your clothes?”

“What’s wrong with my clothes?” she asked defensively.

“Too …” He hesitated. A humorous gleam appeared in his eyes as he met her gaze.

“Too what?”

Expressive eyebrows said what he did not.

“Go on. Say it,” she dared him.

“Sexy,” he said. “I can’t help it. It’s God’s honest truth.”

“Today I was wearing a dress. A simple shift,” Ronnie protested, outraged. “It was
linen
, for goodness’ sake! I bought it at Saks in Washington.”

“Then I’d say that’s the problem. It looks like Washington, not Mississippi.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“Did it look like what the women you met today were wearing?”

Ronnie hesitated. An inescapable vision of Rose in her gaudy dress popped into her mind. “No-o.”

“That’s the point I’m trying to make. In order to
vote for you, they have to like you. Voters tend to like people they perceive as being like themselves. The key is for you to dress like the people you meet here in Mississippi. Maybe a little nicer, a little neater, but in the same vein.”

“It was a perfectly appropriate summer dress,” Ronnie protested again.

“Okay, let’s analyze this. What you have to ask yourself is, what kind of reaction will your outfit arouse in voters? What you wore today was a simple summer dress, without a doubt. I’ll even take your word for it that it was linen. No problem there. But it was purple, sleeveless, body-hugging. Short skirt. High style. Seeing you in it, young male voters probably thought,
Yo, that’s one hot mama
. Older male voters probably thought the same thing—and they might have also thought that their wives don’t look and dress like you. Older women might have remembered Eleanor, made a mental comparison, and turned against you in solidarity with her. And younger women, even women your age who can wear that kind of short sleeveless dress and look good, might think that they couldn’t afford it and resent their perception that the reason
you
can afford it is because you married a rich older man for his money. So in that outfit you can’t win.”

“So what you’re telling me, basically, is that stylish clothes are out.”

“No, that’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying short, tight,
sexy
stylish clothes are out. I want you to look real pretty, real feminine, but also real conservative. Knee-length or longer skirts. Not much skin showing. Nothing that is tight, or clings. Think something a
mom would wear to a PTA meeting. Think something a Sunday-school teacher would wear.”

“In other words, think dowdy.” Ronnie’s voice was dry.

“Think
winning,
” Quinlan corrected. “As in, winning the election.”

“Do you actually think what I wear is going to make that much difference?”

“It’ll help.”

“Fine. I’ll keep it in mind. All right?”

“That’s all I ask.” He glanced down at the watch on his wrist. “We’ve got to start working on getting you home, you know. It’s after five o’clock.”

Ronnie was surprised by how much she didn’t want to return to Sedgely at the moment. Her chest got tight just thinking about it. The memory of what had happened that afternoon came flooding back. Everyone would blame her for this latest public-relations disaster. And there would be reporters lying in wait.

She just didn’t feel up to dealing with it.

“Not yet,” she said, casting about for some valid means of delaying the inevitable. She patted the swing beside her. “Sit down and talk to me. No advice,” she added with a darkling look up at him, “just conversation.”

Quinlan hesitated, then let go of the chain and sat down beside her, keeping the swing in motion with his foot, which was shod in the same dark sock and polished loafer he had worn with his suit.

“About what?”

Ronnie smiled at him, pleased at her success. “About you. If you get to ask me questions, then I get
to ask you questions. How long have you been married?”

“I’m not married.” He was gazing out over the swaying tobacco field, so that his face was in profile to her. Ronnie’s gaze wandered down his high forehead, along his straight nose, over his strong chin. He had a nice profile, ascetic yet very masculine.

“But you said …” Ronnie clearly remembered him saying that he and Joanie had each married different people.

“I’m divorced.”

“Oh.” Ronnie thought that over. A possibility made her eyes brighten. “Are you involved with anyone?”

“Why?” He glanced at her, his expression guarded. She thought she detected a faint speculative gleam in his eyes.

“That’s not an answer.”

“That’s the best I’m prepared to do.”

“Thea is single—and looking.”

“Who’s Thea?” His voice went slightly flat.

“My press secretary. You met her today.”

Quinlan thought a moment. “Short black hair, short gray skirt, nice legs?”

“That’s Thea.” Ronnie frowned. “Did you think
her
skirt was too short?”

“No, not really.”

“Our skirts were the same length!” Ronnie pounced on the inconsistency.

Quinlan shook his head. “So?
She’s
not the wife of a United States senator running for reelection. The stakes are not the same. It doesn’t matter if her skirt is short. Nobody is judging her.”

“That’s what I hate about politics.” Ronnie subsided with a sigh. “Everyone is always judging me.”

“You should have thought about that before you married His Honor. Why did you, by the way? Is it a great love match?”

Ronnie started to reply, then shook her head. “Oh, no. We’re talking about you now, not me. What about your marriage? Was it a love match?”

“Sure.” He smiled easily. As his cheeks creased and his eyes crinkled with amusement, Ronnie found herself relaxing and smiling with him. He had a wonderful ability to put people at ease, she thought. Or at least to put her at ease. “At the time. I was twenty-one, in my senior year of college. So was she. We were crazy about each other. She got pregnant, we got married. But it didn’t last.”

“How long were you married?”

“Twelve years. Oh, the marriage was really over after about five, but we hung on for the sake of the kid.”

“You have a child?” Ronnie didn’t know why she was taken aback. It was perfectly reasonable that a man his age would have a child, or children. Marsden had two.

“You met him,” Quinlan said, surprised. “Mark.”

“Oh.” Ronnie suddenly saw the exchange she had witnessed between Quinlan and Mark in a whole new light. “I didn’t realize he was your son. How old is he?”

“Almost seventeen. He thinks he’s thirty.” Quinlan’s voice was dry.

“Does he live with you?” Ronnie was frowning. She had gotten the impression that Mark lived here, in the
farmhouse, with Mrs. McGuire. Did that mean that Quinlan did, too?

Quinlan shook his head. “Not all the time. Christmas, summers, about every third weekend. It’s flexible. He knows I’m always available.”

“Do you live with your mother, then?”

He shook his head. “I spend a lot of time out here, particularly when Mark’s in town. He and Mom are pretty tight, and I don’t like to leave him alone in my apartment. But most of my things are at the apartment, so I suppose I live there. I travel a lot. Being on the road several months out of the year is an occupational hazard of what I do for a living.”

“Have you been working as a political consultant for long?” Ronnie was suddenly curious as to how such a career happened. As far as she knew, it wasn’t something one could choose to major in at college. He must be well known in the field, because Christine Gwen had recognized him.

He cocked an eyebrow at her. “Wondering if I’m any good? I am. One of the best in fact. I’ve been working on political campaigns since I was in high school.”

Ronnie did not doubt that he was telling the truth, but something was off. Political consultants went to the highest bidder, and the best commanded hefty fees, easily six figures a year. But Quinlan struck her as having had to scramble to get this job, as being hard up for work, as hurting for money in fact.

Before she could pursue that line of inquiry further, the screen door opened and Mrs. McGuire stepped out onto the back stoop.

“Tommy?” she called.

“Here,” he answered. Her head turned and she found them on the swing.

“Telephone,” she said. “Kenny.”

Quinlan frowned. “Excuse me.” He stood up and headed for the house. Mrs. McGuire came toward Ronnie as he left. They passed each other on the driveway.

“I believe we’re going to get a storm.” Mrs. McGuire reached the swing and stood beside it for a moment, staring out over the tobacco field. Gathering clouds darkened the northern horizon. The afternoon was still stiflingly hot, but there was an intermittent, cooler breeze that ruffled leaves and hair and whispered of an impending change in the weather.

“I hope so,” Ronnie said. “Anything would be a relief from this heat.”

“I sort of like the heat.” Mrs. McGuire smiled at her. “I guess because it says
summer
to me. Some of my happiest memories are of this farm in the summer. Tommy’s daddy and I moved here in the summer. He was born the following summer. His brother was born three summers later. And always, when the boys were growing up, in the summer there were ballgames and cookouts and swimming and happy times.”

“It sounds like you have an idyllic life here,” Ronnie said.

“Not idyllic, but good. Until Tommy’s daddy died anyway. After that, things changed.” She sighed. “But that’s the way life is, isn’t it? The one thing you can count on is change.”

The screen door banged, interrupting. Ronnie glanced around to discover Quinlan returning. His expression
was grim. Ronnie felt a twinge of anxiety. What had occurred to make him look like that?

“Is something wrong?” she asked when he reached them.

He glanced down at her, then over at his mother, who was watching him with a gathering frown. It was obvious that she, too, realized something was amiss.

“Could you excuse us a minute, Mom?” he said.

Mrs. McGuire’s eyebrows went up, but she nodded. “Of course.”

“What is it?” Ronnie asked sharply even as the other woman was crunching her way across the gravel.

Quinlan looked down at her for a second without replying. His expression told her he was uncomfortable with what he had to say.

“What is it?” she asked again, her hands clasping of their own accord in preparation for what she felt in her bones would be bad news.

“My partner, Kenny Goodman, just got off the phone with a reporter from the
Globe
. It’s a weekly tabloid, in case you haven’t ever run across it.”

“I know what it is,” Ronnie said, her hands twisting in her lap. It was obvious he was reluctant to continue. “Go on.”

“They want a comment from you on a story they’re getting ready to run.” He hesitated, rubbing the side of his jaw as if uncomfortable. Ronnie simply looked at him without speaking. Her stomach started tying itself in knots again. His gaze met hers. “They say they have a woman who claims to have had a long-standing, intimate relationship with your husband. A prostitute. She’s telling all in the issue that hits the stands next week.”

Chapter
9

“I
T
MAY NOT BE TRUE
,” Quinlan offered when Ronnie didn’t say anything. She could feel her face whitening, could feel the blood draining from her skin to pool in some deep subterranean place inside her body. She felt dizzy suddenly.