Jeremy looked up at a sky, brilliant as a blue flame, and then brought his gaze down to the funereal, black limousine provided for his use.
“Mr. Mayor, it’s criminal to drive in a car like that on a day like this. Isn’t there an open car I could have?” Captain Wilkes sprang forward. “Governor, for reasons of security I asked for a closed car and—”
“Stop right there, Wilkes. I came here to see people. In a big city, where crowds are large and anonymous, there’s some excuse for holding them at arm’s length, but not here in this country, where crowds are small and everybody knows everybody else.”
The Mayor beamed. It was one of the most cherished illusions of the region that all city folk were quiet, treacherous, and violent, while all country people were, like country music, loud, honest, and peaceable.
In a rich, west-country accent, the Mayor assured the Governor that they were all home folks here in Boone County, that they had all voted for Jeremy Playfair, that they were all sure tickled to death to have him with them on this beautiful autumn day, the kind of weather they had most of the year here, in God’s own country, and the last thing the Governor needed was a closed car. The Mayor’s good friend, the President of the Board of Aldermen, would be only too happy to provide the Governor with a convertible, so he could ride with the top down.
Wilkes was not pleased. He insisted on driving the car himself, with Carlos beside him in the front seat and a motorcycle escort deployed around the car.
Jeremy and the Mayor shared the back seat. The Mayor’s wife, Hilary, and Tash followed in a second car that was closed.
That afternoon there was a reception at the Mayor’s house attended by apparently everyone of the slightest importance in the county. Tash had never seen so many mink shrugs and diamond earrings all at once. Hilary was right, as usual. The only way Tash could compete with these women was by wearing no jewels or furs at all.
“I thought hillbillies were poor,” she said to Hilary. “Where does all the money come from?”
“Oil. Whether it’s Middle East or Southwest, oil just loves a backwoods community where it can upset all ecological and economic patterns. Did you ever hear of anybody finding an oil well in Manhattan or Paris?”
In the receiving line, the Governor shook more than five thousand hands. Most of them had the good sense to move on quickly, but there were, as always, a few who held up the line in order to tell the Governor that they had once met his great uncle, or that they didn’t agree with his last speech about regulating the sale of weed killers.
When this happened, Carlos allowed just one question or comment, and then, as soon as Jeremy had responded, eased the exhibitionist along with a smile so that the line was not clogged for any length of time.
When, at last, the receiving line came to an end, Jeremy tried to cross the room to Tash, but his way was barred by a solid hedge of the loyal and the curious. A governor cannot push his way through a crowd. Fortunately, an A.D.C. can. Indeed that’s what he’s for. Carlos was there immediately, facing Jeremy but walking backward, glancing over his shoulder to avoid collision, and so clearing a path where Jeremy could move without either hindrance or embarrassment.
Tash heard a girl in the crowd say: “I am never going to wash that hand again!”
This she reported to Hilary. “Do they think an elected politician has the King’s Touch?”
“Probably.” Hilary frowned. “I don’t like this atavistic Golden Bough stuff. We all know what happens to sacred kings in the end.”
Job flew in by commercial jet the next day, just in time for a chamber of commerce luncheon at the county seat.
Tash was the first to spot him, standing alone in a doorway of the big hotel ballroom, for once hesitant and almost shy. As soon as others recognized him, he got a rousing welcome and became the hero of the occasion.
To Tash, the incident seemed a little contrived. Had the Washington trip really been necessary? Or was the whole thing a device for making a dramatic entrance?
During the next weeks they were lavishly entertained in private houses by hospitable strangers. The pace was so demanding that it was a relief to spend their last night out west at a mountain inn, where there were no other guests by arrangement, and they no longer felt they were on parade.
Jeremy and Tash ordered breakfast on a stone terrace with a view of the whole mountain range.
When the waiter left them alone together, he kissed her quickly. “I love you, Tash.”
“Someone might come along.”
“Who cares?” He was kissing her less quickly when Carlos walked out on the terrace with a newspaper clipping in one hand.
Jeremy waved it away. “Not before breakfast!”
“I’m sorry, but I think you should see this now.”
“For or against us?”
“Against. It’s in the local rag this morning and it’s a honey! Real, old-fashioned, frontier journalism.” Jeremy began to read while Tash looked over his shoulder.
It was an editorial article headed:
OUR WHIZ KID GOVERNOR
This morning we have in our midst a brash, young governor who represents all that is effete and decadent in the devious Eastern Establishment of this state.
We opposed him during the last election when he captured his high office by using questionable electioneering practices. Nothing he has done since has changed our view of him. Jeremy Playfair is immature, irresponsible, frivolous, and totally unfit for any public office higher than that of assistant dog-catcher.
His reckless attempt to meddle in foreign affairs by breaking the dock strike and resuming trade relations with the treacherous Reds in Barlovento may plunge the whole
