Within Reach (20 page)

“Something you’d like to discuss. Sounds serious.”

“It could be. Well, that is…it’s just something I’ve been thinking about. I don’t live far from you. I could come over at your convenience.”

The Governor cleared his throat. “Now, let me see. I’ve got my appointment book right in front of me. Ahhhh. Today’s free. And tomorrow. And the next day.” He chuckled. “I’m not in demand the way I used to be. You name a time. What’s best for you?”

She was already feeling better. The research she had done in the library the day before had told her that James Bryant had been a powerful chief executive. The image of the spirited Irishman had clashed with the more mellow impression she received the other night. Other things she’d read had, in part, explained the mellowing, and she assumed much of it had simply come with age. Still, she hadn’t been sure how he would react to her request.

“I could make it tomorrow morning at ten, if that’s all right with you.”

“Couldn’t be better. It’ll give me something to look forward to. I’ll see you then, Mrs. Lindsay.”

“Thank you, Governor.”

She set down the phone with a sense of satisfaction, but by the time the morning rolled around she was feeling anxious. But she reasoned she had nothing to lose. So she set out on foot, heading down the hill to Charles Street, then over to Beacon. At ten sharp she was at James Bryant’s door. Five minutes later she was seated in his high-ceilinged drawing room, pouring the tea that the Governor’s maid had dutifully provided.

“I’d do that myself,” the Governor explained, “but my hands have a nasty habit of shaking.” He raised one in demonstration. “Some women today are offended by the thought of doing such menial work, so, my dear, please accept my apologies.”

“No apology necessary, Governor—”

“James, please.” He scratched the top of his head, which was bald except for the thin fringe of gray that ringed it. In Danica’s mind, the gesture was an awkward one. When it was immediately followed by the slight lowering of his head, she realized that he felt self-conscious. Again, not quite the image of the elder statesman, but entirely endearing. “They insist on calling me Governor, when I haven’t been that for some twenty-odd years. It’s a form of respect, they say, but I’ve had plenty of respect in my day, and I no longer need to intimidate anyone. So, please, make it James. Now, what is it that’s brought you to my humble abode?”

It wasn’t quite humble, with its stately furniture, its tall windows, its original oils on the walls, but Danica wasn’t about to argue. “I’ve been thinking about your stories and about Alan Hancock’s suggestion that you write them down. I agree with him.”

“That’s because you haven’t heard but one. They’d bore you to tears. At least, that’s what they always did to my son. He told me so. He’d yawn and fidget. Still does.”

“That’s because he’s your son, and perhaps because he’s too close to you to appreciate them.” The insight had been a spontaneous one, though her own case was different. Early on she’d come to resent the life that kept her father at such a distance.

But James was holding firm. “He’s just not interested. Can’t stand politics. Many people are that way, you know.” He reached for a tea cake and belatedly offered one to Danica, who shook her head. “Funny,” he said, turning the cake around in his hand, “when you’re in the middle of it all, it’s like that’s all there is in the world. It’s addictive, politics is. It completely takes you over.”

“There are many people who agree with you, many people who love it as much as you do,” Danica reasoned, knowing well of what she spoke. “But Frank Cohn’s story isn’t a political one. It’s a charming anecdote that carries the flavor of another era. I’ll bet you have many more like that just waiting to be told. What I’m suggesting is that you put together…not exactly your memoirs, though your own story would make a wonderful frame for the others…but a collection of profiles, anecdotes, if you will, about the Boston of forty, fifty, sixty years ago.”

He was frowning. “You’re serious.” She nodded. “It’s always been something of a joke when people have mentioned it, but you are serious.”

“Very much so,” she said.

He closed one eye. “Why?”

She was prepared for the question. “Let me tell you a little about myself. I have a degree in English from Simmons, but I’ve never really done anything with it because I married early—actually the year before I graduated—and I’ve lived the role of the wife ever since. I have no children and therefore more time on my hands than I want. I’ve been looking for something constructive to fill that time. It occurred to me while you were talking the other night that we might be able to work together to get your stories into print.”

There was a long silence, during which James Hardmore Bryant ate his tea cake start to finish. Only after he dusted the last of the crumbs from his tweed trousers did he speak.

“An interesting proposition. But what makes you think you’d be qualified for the position of my, er, my collaborator? You said yourself that you have a degree and no experience.”

For the first time she had a glimpse of the James Bryant who had once been on top of the heap. Though he hadn’t spoken harshly, there had been a command to his words that must have stood him in good stead in his heyday.

Setting her teacup on the tray, Danica folded her hands in her lap as though to conceal the fluttering in her stomach, which, of course, she told herself, he couldn’t see, but they had reached the hard part and she wanted to project conviction.

“I believe I do have experience in things that might help if we should decide to work together. My husband and I are both active in the community. Over the years I’ve dealt with many prominent people. I’m comfortable with them. I’m attuned to their thoughts. I’ve interviewed them, if you will. In some cases I’ve helped put together brochures and fundraising material incorporating personal material much as I might do for you. I think the key word is
organization
. I’m very good at that.”

She paused. When James sat rubbing his lower lip and gave no indication that he wished to speak, she went on. “But my experience goes beyond that. I grew up in a household that revolved around politics. My father is William Marshall. He’s been a member of the Senate since I was a child.”

James dropped his hand and raised his head. “Well, why didn’t you say that from the start?”

Something inside her snapped and impulse took over. “Because I wished I hadn’t had to say it at all. I don’t want anyone looking at me with greater interest because of who my father is. I’m my own person—” she dropped her voice “—or at least I’m trying to be.”

As soon as the last words were out, she realized that they had been unnecessary. She was trying to secure a job, not an analyst. Determined to repair whatever damage she might have done, she resumed speaking in a calm and confident tone.

“The fact is that being William Marshall’s daughter, I’m not ignorant of the political milieu. My parents sheltered me where the limelight was concerned, but through osmosis, if nothing else, I’ve learned a lot. I’ve heard most of my father’s stories at least once, not to mention those of the guests he’s entertained.” She smiled. “You’re not the only one who likes to tell stories. You’re just different in that you have the time now to do something with them. Am I wrong?”

“I wish you were, but you’re not. I have more time than I know what to do with.”

“Then, why not try what I’m suggesting? You have nothing to lose. Neither do I.”

He thought about that for a minute, then gave her a side-long glance. “What makes you think any publisher will buy my, er, our book?”

“You’ve had years of experience in circles of power. Yours is a well-known and respected name, and it carries clout. Given the dubious quality of some of the books out there, I think that a publisher, especially a local one, will jump at the opportunity to print something as interesting as this.” It was a calculated guess, but it was all she had at the moment.

James knew it, too. But he was intrigued both by Danica’s faith and her determination. “Well, then. Exactly what is it you propose?”

She took a deep breath. “I propose that we talk a bit, then that you let me approach several publishing houses. If and when we get a show of interest, better still an offer, we can begin the real work.”

“And how do you suggest we do that? I haven’t the patience to sit and write things down.”

She remembered that from her first meeting with this man and had thought it all out. “You can talk to me. I can ask you questions. We can tape our conversations and have them transcribed. From there on it would really be a matter of organizing and editing.”

He arched both brows. “I think you may be simplifying things, but I’ll be damned if you don’t make it sound tempting. You’d want to be paid, of course.”

This, too, she had thought out. She certainly didn’t need the money, though there was a legitimacy to being paid. If James Bryant was to respect her, he would have to see her in a professional light. “When and if we hear something positive from a publisher, we can draw up an agreement with regard to advances and royalties. There wouldn’t have to be any monetary output on your part. The overhead will be negligible.” She moistened her upper lip. “From what I gather, neither of us needs this money to survive.”

He gave her a crooked grin. “You gather correctly.”

She held her breath. “Then…?”

He tugged at one ear. “They really are boring stories after a while.”

“That’s because you’ve heard them so many times yourself. All we’re asking is that people read them once.”

“And you really think some publisher will go for the idea?”

At that moment Danica knew she’d won. “As I said before, we have nothing to lose.”

“You have
nothing to lose
? Danica, do you have any idea how much
time
a project like this could take?” her father bellowed.

Danica held the phone away from her ear, then returned it to speak calmly. “I have time, Dad. So does Governor Bryant. There isn’t any rush. Spread out over a year or two, it won’t be bad. It’s not as if the material is timely. If it’s waited this long to see the light, it can wait another while longer.”

“It can wait forever. I don’t see the necessity of it.”

She bit her lip in a bid for strength. She was determined not to be cowed by her father, had been steeling herself for his call since she had told Blake about her plans the evening before. She knew Blake, knew that he would call William. A tiny part of her had hoped that, given the nature of the work she proposed, her father would be sympathetic. After all, it could be he who was proposing a similar book based on his own experiences. Unfortunately, sympathy was too much too ask. What she was getting was pure dismay.

“There isn’t a necessity,” she replied quietly, “and there doesn’t have to be. Few published books are necessary. They may be interesting or educational or entertaining, but they’re not necessary.”

“Then why are you doing this?”

She took a breath. “Because I want to.”

“You’ve never thought of working before.”

“You’ve never been aware of my thoughts. I’ve toyed with the idea for a while now. This is the first time something that I felt was feasible has come up. My schedule will be flexible and I can work at home.”

“I thought you said you’d be going to Bryant’s place.”

“Yes, but only for several hours at a stretch and at our mutual convenience. He lives five minutes from here. It’ll be easy. It’s not as if I’m taking a job in an office, working nine to five and commuting each way.”

“I don’t like the idea of your working at all. Neither does Blake.”

“Blake didn’t tell me he had any objections.” In fact, beyond an initial surprise, he had taken the news with relative calm, when she had expected far worse. It still puzzled her that he hadn’t put up a fight, particularly when he had apparently expressed some hesitation to William. She wondered if he had done so purely for William’s benefit; he had to have known what the other’s reaction would be.

“Then Blake was being diplomatic,” William stated. “I don’t have to be. It was bad enough that you barricaded yourself in that house in Maine for the summer when you should have been with Blake. You’re his wife, for God’s sake. Blake Lindsay’s wife doesn’t have to work. William Marshall’s daughter doesn’t have to work.”

“Of course I don’t
have
to. I
want
to.”

“I say you’re making a big mistake. Why in the devil do you feel you have to jump into something you don’t know the first thing about?”

Danica bristled. “Are you saying that you think I can’t do it? That you think I might make a fool out of myself?”

“There’s always that chance.”

“I’m glad you have so much faith in me.”

“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, Danica. I’m only trying to think of what’s best for you.”

“Are you, Dad? Are you really? But what about me? Don’t
I
have a say as to what’s best for me? I’m not a little girl anymore. I’ve lived with myself for twenty-eight years and I think I have some idea of what I want.”

“And what you want is to work with that old coot? How many copies of his book do you think will be bought? How many best-seller lists do you think it’s going to make?”

“That’s not the point. The point is that I want something to do and the prospect of doing this appeals to me.”

William was silent for a moment. “Are you feeling all right, Danica?”

“Of course. What does that have to do with anything?”

“This work idea. Maybe you’re still depressed about the baby. It’s understandable. In time you’ll come to your senses.”

“I have come to my senses,” she said under her breath.

“Speak up. You’re mumbling.”

“Nothing. It was nothing.” She felt suddenly tired.

“Look. Why don’t you put off making any decision for a while. Things are busy now. Just go on doing what you’ve always done. Be there for Blake. Relax. Who knows? Maybe you’ll get pregnant again. You’ll certainly have your work cut out for you then.”