Frosting On The Cake 2: Second Helpings Part 5

The justice turned to Lisa. "Repeat after me. aI...'"

Lisa's eyes s.h.i.+mmered with tears. Ani surrept.i.tiously took a photo, which turned out to be a good thing because Lisa opened her mouth and no sound came out. Then she burst into full-on, chin-quivering, drop-spurting tears.

It took several tries before Lisa even got "I, Lisa" out of her mouth, then she sobbed her way through her vows as the justice patiently waited. Tan looked as if she was about to cry as well, and Eve was sniffling almost as loud as Lisa. Their emotions were already infecting the wedding party that was waiting to use the room next, with the grandmothers and mothers involved dabbing madly at their eyes while the groom cleared his throat and kept his gaze on his feet.

Don't cry, Ani thought, because if you do somehow it'll be your fault. So she didn't cry and in spite of the incredible temptation, she didn't take a photo of Lisa's mascara smeared face and smudged lipstick. She wanted to, real bad. Would she ever get some credit for her restraint? Unlikely.

They'd chosen a lesbian-owned cafe in Waltham for an early dinner, planning to move on to a nightclub that was hosting a girls' dance party for the final Sat.u.r.day of Spring Break. At the cafe door they were greeted by the smiling chef-owner. When Lisa began to explain the reason for their attire and celebration, the owner just smiled and led them to a sequestered table for four.

Lisa stopped dead at the sight of pale blue and deep purple ribbons twined together and draped over the chairs. A lovely bouquet of irises and baby blue carnations graced the table.

"Oh my goodness," she said. She immediately turned to Eve. "This was your doing, I just know it."

"Ani's idea," Eve said.

"Yeah," Ani said. "I'm good for something, you know."

Lisa gave her a nonplussed look, then broke into a grin and enveloped her in a big hug. "Okay, I love you. Don't know what I'd do without you."

Tan coughed.

Very pleased by the hug, Ani gave her a push toward Tan. "She's stuck with you now."

Tan, ever unflappable, nodded solemnly. "She is stuck with me too."

Ani ushered Eve into her chair and planted a small kiss behind her left ear, right in that warm, tender spot that wasn't quite neck and not really throat. It was so delicious she did it on the other side as well. "Stuck with me?"

A dancing look of desire and promise was the answer she got, and Ani was glad Tan and Lisa were retiring for the night to a fancy hotel, leaving the cottage to her and Eve. She was certain they would find a way to pa.s.s the time. And sometime after sunrise Eve would roll over to snuggle into her arms and say, "Good morning."

And her day would start, the way it should always start, in Eve's arms.

Wild Things.

Published: 1995.

Characters: Faith Fitzgerald, professor and historical biographer Sydney Van Allen, lawyer and politician Setting: Chicago, Illinois.

The Sixth is Serendipity.

Losing Faith.

(15 years).

It is quite one thing to be a professor of history and quite another to be history, I wrote in my journal. I paused to look out at the darkening sky and rising lights, pondering the view from the top floor of the Omni Park West.

It was beautiful and ethereal. But it had been chosen because there was no direct line of sight from any other structure in Manhattan into this or the other rooms that shared this side of this floor. It had been three days since I'd ceased to see the view for its wonder. Instead, when I looked, I heard in my head the Secret Service p.r.o.nouncement: sniper safe.

The wall was open between the Presidential Suite and the Junior Presidential Suite, where I was. The immense combined common s.p.a.ce was crammed with folding tables that were in turn encrusted with laptops. Every chair was occupied with a frazzled aide and they were all talking on their cell phones. The conversation was nothing but fragments. In this world, no one ever finished a sentence unless they were being recorded.

For once, the press detail had been sequestered. There was heavy politicking going on.

"But if Jefferson won't see us tonight, that means we're screwed and the old-"

"I don't care what your poll says, our polls are national, not regional, and there's no question that-"

"Look here, you can't just ask for confirmation and not tell me who's asking, I won't-"

The voices overlapped in a fury of purpose. Just past this fountain of energy sat my lover, Sydney Van Allen, looking every inch the Ice Queen she'd been dubbed many years ago. Not caring to mimic the red jacket trend for female political candidates she was as usual dressed in cream and ivory tones, from fitted linen trousers to the cashmere sweater that was also threaded with a bright aquamarine. Her much discussed shoes were today cla.s.sic, elegant Magli pumps as faithfully reported on sydneyss...o...b..og.com.

I knew she heard it all, but she reacted to nothing. Like everyone else she was waiting on Senator Randall Mayhurst Jefferson's decision. Who could blame Jefferson for savoring his role as one of the most powerful men in the world-if only for a few hours?

I heard someone ask, "Is Faith here?"

I turned, gestured. The frantic aide rushed up. I recognized her-she was the one a.s.signed to wardrobe. I got the usual question.

"Has the candidate finalized her attire for the convention's afternoon session tomorrow?"

"Senator Van Allen knows."

Wide eyes. "I can't ask her."

I pointed. "She's right over there. She doesn't look busy." Use your eyes, I wanted to say, and ask yourself if that woman needs my help dressing. Sydney had impeccable taste that came with inherited wealth. Some pundits used photos of her closet, bills from boutiques in Milan and the shoe blog mania to portray her as a silver-spoon elitist. She had inherited hundreds of millions. Wearing Wal-Mart jeans would be patronizing, which the same pundits would then also criticize. So she kept her style, and donned safety gear over it in factories and mines. Workers did give her a wide berth-at first. But when she listened to them with her whole being, asked questions that said she understood the limitations of wages and worker safety regulations, the people she talked to walked away feeling as if they'd been heard by someone who both cared and had a chance to do something about their concerns. I'd seen it happen many times-it was her magic.

The aide tiptoed across the crowded, noisy room and I went back to my journal.

I am doubtful that male spouses of female candidates are asked to keep track of their wives' clothing, but this is a tediously routine request for my attention, and one area that Sydney and I have specifically agreed would never be my purview. I am a professor; we are not a species known for our fas.h.i.+on sense.

Resting my wrists on the keyboard support pad, I paused to wonder if my journal was becoming a record of whining. I truly believed that Sydney had an unlimited political capacity, and that she would be an amazing, motivating, galvanizing vice president, should her running mate prevail at tomorrow evening's voting, and the general public's only ten weeks from now. She was the only woman in contention for the job of vice president among any of the political parties this election. If she was sworn in little baby lesbians everywhere would know they too could be a heartbeat from the highest office in the United States.

We'd not spent more than a night in our Chicago apartment in over four months.

We'd not been alone together in over eight months-but then my definition of alone meant no security posted directly outside our hotel room door. Not yet a candidate for high office, Sydney's security detail was still private, but they had been receiving advice from the Secret Service ever since the first "routine" death threats. I was supposed to be used to it by now.

As a historian, I had promised myself I would not censor my journal. Someday it could be part of a presidential archive. Someday, some historian much younger than me would read it. It should not be prettied up, it should not reflect only my best thoughts. If I allowed that to happen I owed a number of students better grades than I had given them.

I was about to resume typing when the scent of Sydney's cologne tickled at my nose. It was custom-made for her and always made me think of suns.h.i.+ne on warm linen.

Leaning back in my chair, I stretched my hand over my shoulder, wiggling my fingers in greeting. She took them in her hand and turned me to face her.

"You look so solemn." Her brown eyes, velvet eyes, wrapped me in affection.

"Recording for posterity the inappropriateness of being asked about your wardrobe plans."

"I've told her time and again to always ask me. I'm sorry they see you as the typical wife."

"I mostly am the typical wife," I said. "It's their view of what a typical wife does that I find regressive."

She kissed my forehead-the one public display of affection candidates in her position were really allowed. Politics today, however, meant it was entirely possible a rabid pundit would insist that the unborn child of the aide that was pregnant could be forever damaged by our wanton displays. The wedding rings on our fingers were no s.h.i.+eld against people who made millions as professional liars.

I wanted to relax into her. Put my head on her shoulder, tell her a funny story or ask her to go to the movies with me. We'd discuss the choices, air our feelings about the performers, and if we should disagree we'd share a kiss or two to make it all better.

Our disagreements could be spirited. The making up...more so.

I missed that. I missed her.

Perhaps she knew, because she let me lean into her for a long moment, giving me strength. I took it, greedy creature that I am. When she was standing in the convention wings tomorrow evening, waiting for her momentous speech as a woman on the edge of history, I would give every ounce of energy I had back to her.

An aide slammed down a phone and cursed loudly.

"Watch it." David Morrell, the campaign manager, had strict rules about profanity. Between that and Sydney's icy stare, few staffers forgot.

"Sorry. I just spent two hours trying to get Jefferson's calendar and all I'm getting is the runaround. If he's decided which candidate he's going to visit first tonight, he's not saying."

I turned back to my keyboard, but I continued to listen.

Sydney returned to the main room. "Are we so sure it matters that much? Who he sees first?"

"Absolutely," David said. "Whoever it is will be an instant leak to the press, and then the polling will start, right then. If it's us, we could know by six a.m. how it's playing in Peoria."

"If I can't play Peoria, I've no business playing Madison Square Garden tomorrow." Sydney's voice was droll, almost laconic. "Is there any sign of the revision to the section on immigration policy and education statistics?"

"I'll have it for you in about five." I continually forgot that young woman's name. She was good at her job, punching up Sydney's speeches, though all her work then went through the senior speechwriter for the ticket. Isabella? Like the queen? I wasn't sure. I supposed the many years of seeing hundreds of students and never learning their names had ill-trained me for remembering names now. They were all so young, and so earnest.

History is full of stalwart political wives, I wrote. Or, if not stalwart, competent campaigners and genteel activists for genteel causes. I often feel that with so many specialists I have nothing left to give Sydney that I could do as well as anyone else. There's only one thing I can give that no one else can: love. She has my love, will have all of me if she asks, and can give me all of her, for safekeeping, for loving, for soothing, for sleeping even, and know that I will never falter. No matter how high she climbs I am at the bottom of any fall. She says it's easier to walk a high wire, even risk a trick or two, knowing she can fall.

Behind me the debate raged about what Jefferson would decide. Two candidates had roughly equal numbers of delegates, but not enough to clinch the nomination. Jefferson had the rest. So he chose the convention winner and in ten weeks would deliver Texas in the general election. He would be owed favors, big favors. A prominent cabinet post, or, if he wanted to relax from the harder work of politics, an amba.s.sadors.h.i.+p. Luxembourg is lovely, I've heard.

Sydney had resumed the chair at the other end of the room, looking calm and collected again. I knew she sat so she wouldn't pace. Her knee was bothering her but I guessed no one saw that but me. At home I'd have brought her a couple of ibuprofen tablets and a half gla.s.s of milk. Here, in this fishbowl, candidates were never seen taking pills of any kind.

A flurry and shared intake of breath told me that the candidate, Governor Frank Pawtucket from the great state of Michigan, had returned.

David must have delivered a quiet update, because the next thing I heard was Frank-whose voice could pierce concrete-asking, "What in h.e.l.l is he up to?"

Sydney abruptly spoke. "I think this is about me."

"Don't give yourself airs, Syd." I turned in time to see Frank sliding his suit jacket off his broad shoulders. "This is probably about donors and what's being offered to Jefferson even as we speak."

Sydney made a face. "Sure, n.o.body is wondering if Pawtucket can win with a lesbian as his running mate. Come on Frank, I know the polling hasn't stopped. The more likely you're in, the more people are suddenly faced with the possibility of yours truly." She laughed. "How did p.e.c.k.e.rhead put it? Just when we thought the Vice Presidency couldn't be more diminished than it is, they're seriously talking about a lesbo VP?"

Frank and David laughed. Sydney wasn't given to euphemisms, but the pundit in question was, in point of fact, a p.e.c.k.e.rhead.

"Syd, don't start on that you're-not-worthy meme, okay? You and I see eye-to-eye on all major domestic issues. You've been on the Armed Services Committee for the last four years. You brought a huge chunk of the progressive wing with you. You're the best lesbo for the job."

Aides snickered and went back to their work. Frank and David paced. Sydney sat still as a statue. No word came from Jefferson's camp.

At midnight I went to bed.

In real life, sunrise rarely portends momentous days. I let the curtains fall back over the window and adjusted the desk lamp so it shone only on my keyboard. No red sunset at morning for politicians to take warning. This morning's sunrise is no different than yesterday's. The sun is yellow, the light is bright, and no one has heard whether Jefferson has gone to visit the other side. His office has not called us either. Sydney's speech commences in a little under twelve hours. We leave for the convention in seven hours. She's to be introduced by the Speaker of the House-but so far no one knows if she'll be introduced as the Senator from the great state of Illinois, or candidate for the next Vice president of the United States.

I stretched at my desk in our bedroom off the junior of the two suites, not yet ready to be out in the bullpen. Sydney hadn't come to bed until very late and I was letting her sleep, in defiance of her instructions. Beauty sleep, I would tell her.

Turning my head, I studied her profile. She had no need of beauty sleep, not in my eyes. Her short blonde hair was a mess. She'd not taken the time to wash off her make-up, so mascara smeared one cheek. Beautiful, my Sydney, in her moments of imperfection. Human and vulnerable, though only I saw that.

A bustle outside our door was followed by quiet. I was certain that if there was any word from Jefferson, Sydney would be awakened. I envied Sydney her sleep. I wanted to go for a very long walk-ill-advised. The security detail would be stretched too thin if I left the hotel.

I took one last look at Sydney's face in repose. The idea that by the Tuesday after the first Monday in November there was a chance people would call her Madam Vice president was still beyond my comprehension. I understood it purely academically.

I suspected that if I let myself feel anything but historical interest in the process I would be terrified. Deeper than that there were other emotions I would not name. My interest in my journal dwindled and I remembered there had been the aroma of coffee earlier.

To my surprise I found Governor Pawtucket alone in the bullpen. He looked tired. The breakfast buffet was decimated but there was still coffee.

"Good morning, Dr. Fitzgerald." He was always genial and welcoming with me.

"I think you could call me Faith," I said, not for the first time.

"When you call me Frank."

"That wouldn't be appropriate, sir. You could be my president in ten weeks." I finished adding cream and stirred the result.

"That's not looking likely at the moment."

"No word?"

"Not a peep." He stirred and I realized his large hands were hiding an empty napkin with donut crumbs-a no-no according to Mrs. Pawtucket. "I'm glad we have a few quiet minutes. The kids are all down in the press room."

His affectionate term for the score of aides and interns made me smile. "Peace and quiet is hard to come by." I wondered if he would like me to retreat and give him back his solitude.

"My wife is a huge fan of your books. She eats biographies for breakfast. She loved the book about Queen Isabella."

I knew that about Mrs. Pawtucket. I liked her. She reminded me of myself-a professional woman with a life of her own usurped by her husband's political fortunes. I thought she did better than I at coping. Of course a large part of her energy had always gone to normalizing life for her children. They were now in college. In their married life, the timing of a presidential run this year made a great deal of sense.

I was aware, inappropriately, that Sydney was melted in sleep, her body warm and supple, only twenty feet away from me. If we were quiet...even though we weren't alone...I'd been a fool to leave our bed to brood.

Thinking about s.e.x on a momentous day like this made me feel frivolous and shallow. But I wasn't the candidate or running mate. For me, no day would be more momentous than the one when Sydney had told me she loved me.

Frank, his intelligent eyes watchful, was expecting an answer. I sat down across from him on one of the uncomfortable, overstuffed chairs and said, "Thank your wife for me. I appreciate any and all readers."