The gap between the dignity of the office and the personality of this small, uninhibited man was enormous. Beside Job, Carlos was like a large, calm, splendid Saint Bernard dog, while Job himself seemed like a yapping, feisty, little terrier.
“I’ll call you Tash. You call me Job. Everybody does. Is that your car outside? The blue convertible? It’s rolled. I came in to tell you.”
“Oh, no!”
“Oh, yes! Come on out and look.”
It hadn’t rolled far. A tree had stopped it, denting one of the front fenders.
“This is the second time it’s happened this month!” wailed Tash.
“It’s that automatic drive,” said Job. “So easy when you’re in a hurry to put the gear indicator on N for neutral instead of P for park. You do it by sight, not by feel, the way you did the old gear shifts, and sight can be deceptive.”
“I’ll watch it in future,” said Tash.
“You’d better.” Job took a cigar from his pocket and made a business of lighting it. Once he had it going, he went on in the same rapid-fire style. “Has Carlos been loading you to the eyebrows with stuff about Barlovento?”
Carlos opened his mouth, but Job stifled his protest with a raised hand. “Forget it!” Job went on. “Who cares one good goddamn about what happens to Barlovento?”
“Now wait a minute!” cried Carlos. “There is a large Barloventan vote in this country, and if you took the trouble to read history—”
“You told me yourself this morning that there are no good histories of Barlovento in English,” retorted Job. “And you know that I don’t know one word of Spanish. But I do know that all the voters in this state really care about is the gut issues. What I’d like to see in the Governor’s next speech is a pledge to stop inflation, lower taxes, and raise food prices.”
“You’re joking,” said Tash.
“I never joke about politics.”
“But you said raise food prices!”
“Of course I did. There are only two industrial counties in this state. The other seventeen are all farming counties. Seventeen counties are a lot of voters, and they all want food prices to go up.”
Carlos burst out laughing. “My dear Miss Perkins, do not let our Mr. Jackman intimidate you with his impersonation of Boss Tweed. Neither he nor I decide policy around here. Only the Governor himself, and he will talk to you about all this at luncheon. Oh, didn’t I mention that you’re lunching with him today? Drinks in the Florida Room at one o’clock. Come on, Job. Miss Perkins has work to do.”
At five minutes to one Tash stepped through the door that led from the executive offices to the rest of the house.
The first thing she heard was a bird singing.
She followed the sound and it led her to the Florida Room, where Vivian Playfair’s canary was pouring out his heart in a fountain of song.
Vivian herself stood by the cage, listening.
One look at her and Tash was speechless.
This was another woman from the woman who had received her last Monday.
It was not just the change in clothes, though that was part of it. She had taken trouble with what she wore this time. Her raw-silk slacks and short-sleeved cashmere sweater were the yellow of the canary’splumage, a streak of sunshine in a room now dimmer with the Venetian blinds drawn. Their cut revealed a Tanagra figure—wasp waist, small, high bosom, gently rounded hipline, long legs. But the real change was in the woman herself.
This time she looked young for her twenty-eight years. Her eyes were a clean, bright blue. Her hair, loosely shaped to frame her face, had a pale gloss with golden highlights. Her skin seemed to glow softly like light shining through alabaster. With all the yellow, she was wearing coral beads and a coral ring, the pink shade of coral that has yellow in its composition.
This was the legendary Vivian Playfair whose looks and taste had provided so much copy for Sunday newspapers and women’s magazines.
“Miss Perkins, I am so glad you are going to work with us for a while. I liked the interview and so did Jerry.” It took Tash a moment to realize that “Jerry” meant Jeremy.
“We were both distressed when we read in the papers that your pocket had been picked after you left here. Did you lose much?”
“Only thirty-nine dollars and that letter you—” Vivian interrupted gently. “Did Hilary Truance assign you a room of your own here?”
“An office? Yes, when I got here this morning, a page—”
“You’ll need more than an office when the campaign gets under way. You’ve no idea of the organized frenzy that goes on during an election. There’ll be nights when you work too late to go home afterward, so you’ll have to have a place here where you can flop for a few hours. Tell Hilary I said so. I think there’s a suite of rooms near hers, but if not, she’ll find you something elsewhere.”
“Thank you. About that letter—”
“Carlos!” Vivian’s glance went beyond Tash to the doorway. Her smile was radiant as she held out her hand. Carlos bowed his head to brush her fingers with his lips. He turned to Tash without losing a beat and smiled.
“I meant to show you the way here, but I see you didn’t need me.”
“I followed the canary’s song,” said Tash.
“Ah, Blondel!” Carlos went over to the cage. The bird seemed to know him well for it did not flutter. “You are no longer a minstrel,” he whispered, lips close to the bars. “You are merely a luncheon bell.”
“I am dying for a martini,” said Vivian. “And I imagine that Miss Perkins is, too.”
“Don’t I see sherry?” said Tash.
“You do indeed.” Carlos moved to the drinks table. “The best of all pre-luncheon drinks, as anyone with a drop of Spanish blood will tell you. This I ordered myself.”
The moment Tash tasted it, she knew it was
