determined, he felt his world fly off its axis. He felt on the verge of suffocation, each breath shallow and short. “I can’t deal with this. I just can’t.”
Warner walked over to a portrait that hung on a far wall of himself in cap and gown on graduation day at Harvard Law School. Edmund had not attended. He’d told Warner that he’d show up when Warner accomplished something worth celebrating.
Warner pulled the frame forward like a cupboard door to reveal a wall safe. He stared at the steel door behind the picture, hesitating for a moment as he tried to make some sense out of his confused emotions.
He reached out and grasped the dial to the safe, his decision made. With numb fingers, he dialed the combination. The lock clicked, then the door opened.
He pulled out a.38 caliber snub nose.
He was Warner “Fucking” Lane, the promising young Senator from Missouri. On the fast track to the White House. The presidency was his lifelong goal, and the senate was a key component to reaching that goal. Shit, what did it matter? Everything was gone now.
Warner inspected the gun as it rested in the palm of his shaking hand. A sob caught in his throat.
Carolyn sat on the corner of her desk at their mansion, scribbling notes on a yellow legal pad, and fielding calls from all over the country. High-level politicians and powerbrokers wanted her read on what had happened to Warner. She answered their questions in polished political fashion, spinning the situation to her and Warner’s advantage. The national attention was incredible.
Carolyn knew that the balance of power between her and Warner shifted on the night of the election. She’d never aspired to anything other than a full partnership with her husband, but fate had stepped in and turned their world upside down. She’d promised herself that same night that they would recover from defeat and triumph again, although she would lead the team. In her own way, and on her terms. Then, and only then, she realized, would she be able to reform the foster care system. Then, and only then, would she be able to salvage her dignity, despite Warner’s rejection and his shockingly self-destructive behavior. She would not fail Warner a second time, at least not professionally.
The phone rang again.
“May I speak to Warner, please,” a baritone voice drawled.
“I’m sorry, he’s not available. May I ask who’s calling?”
“This is Senator Richard Young. I wanted to offer my condolences.”
Carolyn cringed. She knew that the Senator from Georgia was one of Warner’s drinking buddies in Washington. “That’s very thoughtful of you, Senator. I’ve heard Warner speak of you often, and I’ll be sure to tell him you called.”
“Thank you, ma’am. He knows where to reach me.”
“Good day. Senator.” Carolyn wrote his name down on a message slip, then tore it up. She’d be damned before she’d encourage that friendship. Warner knew she didn’t trust Young. but they were close friends and, as usual, he didn’t care what she thought. Carolyn dropped the ripped up message into the garbage can at the side of her desk.
The phone rang again. A female voice told her to hold for the Speaker of the House.
Carolyn moved behind her desk and sat.
“Carolyn, hello.” The hearty voice of Jonathan Daniels boomed over the phone lines.
“Well, hello, Mr. Speaker. It’s so nice to hear from you.”
“I was sorry to learn of yesterday’s outcome.”
“Yes, we’re very disappointed, but we’re going to re-group and come out fighting in the next election.”
“Good to hear it.” Jonathan said. “Is Warner around? You know my feelings about him. I still believe he has a great future in politics, and I’d like to offer my support.”
“No, actually he’s stepped out for the morning.” Carolyn lied. “But let me thank you for him. I’ll be sure to tell Warner you called to offer your support. I know it will mean a lot to him.”
She hung up, validated that her efforts behind the scenes during the previous year had worked. In order to separate herself from her father-in-law’s grasp, she’d concentrated on cultivating relationships at the national level. Obviously, she had succeeded in bringing the right kind of attention to herself and Warner. Despite this debacle of an election, she now had a strategically tight grip on the reins of their future.
In anger she’d threatened divorce, but she knew that would be disastrous to her life – their lives. She would build on Warner’s failure. Prove to him the value of their marriage. Their partnership.
Edmund would make it easy for her. He’d relinquish control and want nothing to do with his son, now that Warner had lost. Carolyn stopped writing and tapped her cheek with the end of the pen. “I can make this work,” she said aloud, heartened that her dreams had not been completely destroyed.
Warner had always done what he wanted. All too often, he ignored her advice. Not any longer, she decided. Carolyn picked up her mug of tea and walked to the window, looking out across the lawn of the old estate. Like her life, the gardens were dormant. Barren branches trembled in the wind and rusted leaves skittered across the yard.
A measure of calm came with her newfound feeling of confidence. She knew that she could get Warner into the White House, but he’d have to agree to her terms. He’d rejected her personally, and that pain would probably never fade, but professionally, he needed her now more than ever. And, just maybe, if she saved his career, she could heal their marriage once he succeeded in the political arena.
She sipped at her now cold herbal tea, enjoying the quiet as her mind raced with thoughts of the future. She was, after all, a survivor.
The sharp report of a gunshot shattered the calm.
Carolyn jumped.
Tea splattered the window, her sweater and the wall. Her mug crashed to the floor.
She stood stock still. Her mind frozen by fear. Her limbs suddenly weak and rubbery.
Warner? Oh, dear God, please don’t take him from me.
She willed herself to move. Heart pounding in her ears, she dashed out of the room and ran down the hallway toward the gunshot.
SIXTEEN
Jack Rudly strode across the tarmac about ten yards behind the president of the United States. The wind whipped at his face, and the crisp morning air sent a shiver through his body. Freshly fallen leaves skipped across the ground. He looked up at the glimmer of yellow light on the horizon as it blended into shades of pale blue and pushed against the navy darkness of the night sky.
Absently, he adjusted his tie. This was his first morning covering the White House in the “tight pool.” Every White House correspondent traveled in the press plane, except the tight pool. Chosen on a rotating basis, this small group spent every moment near the president on catastrophe watch, then reported anything significant to the regular press pool.
Jack boarded Air Force One and found his seat. He had to admit that since joining the
Jack reached for a cigarette, then stopped himself Air Force One had rules about such things. Damn, domestic issues just didn’t hold the charm that life as a foreign correspondent had. This was success, he reminded himself, what his goal had been, a senior position with an excellent news organization.
