Her father scowled at Lucy as if she were an unbearable nuisance. “If she forgets, I suppose you and I will have to go out and purchase some ourselves.”
“You mean it?”
“Unlike some people, I’m not in the habit of rattling away just to hear myself talk.”
Lucy grinned. “Cool.”
Somehow they all survived the Sunday brunch. That evening, Nealy rocked Button to sleep, then helped Lucy with her history project. At eleven o’clock, when the house was finally quiet, she made her way to her bedroom, undressed, and slipped into a robe.
During the day, she did her best not to think about Mat, but nights were harder, and Sunday nights the hardest of all, maybe because they marked the beginning of a new week without him. At first she’d tried to talk herself out of it, but that just seemed to make her sadness spill over into Monday. Finally, she’d learned to give in to her Sunday night blues.
NIGHTS OF PASSION WITH
AMERICA’S FIRST LADY
by Mat Jorik
The first time I spoke with Cornelia Case, she was hot to trot, and no wonder, since her husband, the former president of the United States, was—are you ready for this?—GAY! Her lust slid over me like cheap lingerie . . .
It was the story Nealy had imagined, but not the one Mat had written. She sat in the window seat, remembering how she’d felt when she’d held the Chicago Standard in her hand and seen his exclusive.
The first time I spoke with Cornelia Case, she was rescuing a baby at a truck stop outside McConnellsburg, Pennsylvania. Rescuing babies is something she’s good at, since she’s been trying to do it most of her life. When she fails, as she often does, she takes it more personally than she should, but more about that later.
I didn’t know she was Cornelia Case then. She was wearing navy shorts, cheap white sneakers, and a yellow maternity top with some ducks marching across it. Her hair was cut short, and she had what looked like an eight-month pregnancy sticking out in front of her.
None of the stories written about her ever mention that the lady has a temper, but, believe me, she does. For all her polish, Nealy Case can go after you when she gets upset. And she was definitely upset with me . . .
The Chicago Standard had published Mat’s story in six parts that had been quoted and analyzed in every media outlet in the world. In the articles, he’d detailed both the girls’ plight and how Nealy had come into their lives. He’d described the incident at the covered bridge, dinner at Grannie Peg’s, and the Celebrity Lookalike Contest. He’d written about meeting Bertis and Charlie, and the night he’d confronted Nealy about her identity. Mabel and Squid had come alive as his story unfolded, along with Nico and the house in Iowa.
In every article, he’d made his own decisions about what should be on or off the record. On the record were the details of her escape, her frustrations with being First Lady, her enthusiasm for picnics, Frisbees, convenience stores, and two motherless little girls. At first she’d been stunned that he’d revealed so much about the girls, but by appeasing the public’s curiosity so quickly, he’d called off the bloodhounds and done more to protect their privacy than an army of security guards.
Also on the record were her political ambitions as well as her aversion to being around healthy babies, although, as Mat wrote about it, her neurosis no longer seemed like such a weakness.
Off the record was her sexual relationship with him and everything about Dennis Case. He’d asked for her trust, but she hadn’t been able to give it. Now she admitted she should have remembered his rock-solid sense of responsibility and not passed judgment so swiftly.
Although he’d exposed far more of her private world than any other journalist, he’d also transformed her from a national icon into a living, breathing woman. He’d described the way she cared about people and her delight in the ordinary, her deep sense of patriotism and her love of politics—although she didn’t appreciate being labeled a “dewy-eyed optimist.” He made her seem more vulnerable than she thought she was, but she appreciated the way he stressed her deep knowledge of national and international affairs.
Only as he described his own relationship with her did he become vague, which left her to do the clean-up work. Barbara Walters hadn’t made it easy.
BW: Mrs. Case, in Mat Jorik’s series of articles in the Chicago Standard, he describes your feelings about the girls at some length, but he doesn’t say much about your relationship with each other. Would you care to comment?
CC: Mat is a fine journalist, and he wrote about what happened in more detail than I ever could. I don’t think he left much out.
BW: But how would you describe your relationship?
CC: Two hard-headed adults trying to figure out what was best for the girls. Emphasis on the hard-headed.
BW: Mat does mention your quarrels.
CC: [laughs] Which would never have happened if he hadn’t been wrong so often.
That laughter hurt. Pretending it had meant nothing.
BW: And are you still friends?
CC: How could we not be friends after going through an adventure like that? You’ve heard about soldiers during wartime. Even though they never see each other again, there will always be a special bond between them.
Special and oh, so painful.
BW: Have you and Mat spoken since then?
CC: At this point, he’s still the girls’ legal guardian, and we have the adoption to sort out, so of course there’s been communication.
No need to say that it had all been through their attorneys.
BW: Just to set the record straight, there was no romantic relationship between the two of you.
CC: Romantic? We were only together for a week. And don’t forget that we had two very active chaperones. It would have been a difficult trick to pull off.
Very difficult . . . but not impossible.
Tightening the sash on her ice-blue silk robe, she walked across her bedroom carpet to the cherry armoire that held her stereo equipment and flicked on her CD player. She pushed a few buttons, then turned down the volume so only she could hear.
The lush sounds of Whitney Houston signing her anthem for broken hearts washed over her, and Nealy’s first burning, self-indulgent, oh-so-necessary tears began to fall.
Because she would always love him . . .
Squeezing her arms tightly over her chest, she’d listen to Whitney sing it as it was.
Bittersweet memories . . .
She pulled the box from the bottom of her closet and carried it to her bed where she sat cross-legged, the silk robe falling open over her knees. Inside the box were her own bittersweet memories: a matchbook cover from Grannie Peg’s, a smooth river stone she’d picked up by the covered bridge, her little beaded choker, and the pink rose he’d plucked for her the night they’d explored the old farmhouse. It grew more brittle every time she handled it.
She drew it to her face, but the fragrance had faded.
He was the second man she’d loved. The second man who hadn’t loved her back.
The song began to play again.
Her self-indulgence was so melodramatic that she always wanted to laugh at herself. But somehow she never managed it.
Bittersweet memories . . .
Just once a week to relive those old memories. Was that so terrible? Once a week, so she could make it through the rest of the days and nights of her life.
I will always love you.
Mat had everything he’d ever wanted. Money. Respect. A job he loved. And privacy.
If he reached for his flannel shirt when he came home from work, it was exactly where he’d left it. When he opened his bathroom cabinets, he found shaving cream, deodorant, Ace bandages, and foot powder. Nobody got into his root beer, left her Walkman where he could step on it, or threw up on the carpet of the townhouse he was renting in Chicago’s Lincoln Park.
He was only responsible for himself. He could change his plans on a moment’s notice, watch the Bears lose without anybody interru
pting him, and call his buddies to shoot some baskets whenever he felt like it. His life was perfect.
So why did he feel as if he’d somehow been cheated?
He set aside the newspaper he hadn’t read. Most Saturday mornings he drove to Fullerton Beach and ran along the lake, but today he didn’t feel like it. He didn’t feel like doing much of anything. Maybe he’d try to get a start on next week’s columns.
He gazed across his living room, which was furnished with big chairs and an extra-long couch, and wondered what they’d be doing today. Was Lucy getting along with the other girls at that ritzy private school Nealy had stuck her into? Had Button learned any new words? Did they miss him? Did they even think about him?
And Nealy . . . it looked like she was getting ready to make a run for Jack Hollings’s seat in the Senate. He was happy for her—really happy—so he didn’t know why he felt as if something were tearing open inside him every time he saw a photograph of her decked out in one of her designer suits.
He was tired of being alone with his own misery, so he started upstairs to change into his running shorts only to be stopped by the doorbell.
The last thing he wanted was Saturday morning company. He stalked over to the door and jerked it open. “What d’you—”
“Surprise!”
“Surprise! Surprise!”
“Surprise!”
Seven of them. Seven surprises. His sisters burst inside and hurled themselves into his arms.
Mary Margaret Jorik Dubrovski . . . Deborah Jorik . . . Denise Jorik . . . Catherine Jorik Mathews . . . Sharon Jorik Jenkins Gros . . . Jacqueline Jorik-Eames . . . and Sister Ann Elizabeth Jorik.
Chubby and skinny; pretty and plain; college students, stay-at-home moms, professional women; single, married, divorced, bride of Christ—they exploded into his space.
“You’ve sounded depressed when we’ve talked to you . . .”
“. . . so we got together and decided to visit.”
“To cheer you up!”
“Out of the way. I have to pee!”
“. . . hope you have decaf.”
“Oh, God, my hair! Why didn’t you tell me it looked like . . .”
“. . . use the phone so I can call the sitter.”
“. . . all the publicity these past few months has been so hard on you.”
“Shit! I snagged my new . . .”
“. . . what are sisters for?”
“. . . anybody have a Midol?”
They were barely in the door before, one by one, they started drawing him aside.
“. . . worried about Cathy. She might be doing her bulimia thing again, and . . .”
“. . . ran up my Visa . . .”
“. . . need to talk to you about Don. I know you never liked him, but . . .”
“. . . obvious that the prof hates me . . .”
“. . . if I should change jobs or . . .”
“. . . all two-year-olds are temperamental, but . . .”
“. . . give communion, and the fact that Father Francis can consecrate the host, but I can’t . . .”
In little more than an hour, they got lipstick on his T-shirt, moved his favorite chair, snooped through his private organizer, borrowed fifty bucks, and broke the carafe on his Krups coffeemaker.
God, he was glad to see them.
Two of his sisters spent the night at the Drake, two more stayed with Mary Margaret at her place in Oak Park, and two stayed with him. Since he was sleeping like crap anyway, he gave them his king-sized bed and took the guest room.
As usual, he woke up a couple of hours after he’d fallen asleep and wandered downstairs. He ended up in the living room, where he gazed out at the dead leaves and branches scattered across his small patio. He envisioned Nealy, the way she looked after they’d made love, her hair tousled, skin flushed . . .
“We’re awful, aren’t we?”
He turned and saw Ann coming downstairs. She wore a god-awful gray robe that looked like the same one she’d taken off to the convent. Her springy hair stood out in mischievous curls from her round, chubby face.
“Pretty awful,” he agreed.
“I know I shouldn’t complain to you about church politics, but the other nuns are so conservative, and—” She gave him a rueful smile. “We always do this to you, don’t we? The Jorik girls are strong, independent women until we’re around our big brother, and then we fall back into our old patterns.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Yes, you do. And I don’t blame you.”
He smiled and hugged her. What a hellion she’d been as a kid. So much like Lucy . . . Pain shot through him.
“What’s wrong, Mat?”
“Why do you think anything’s wrong?”
“Because you should be on top of the world, and you’re not. You were part of the biggest human-interest story of the year. Everybody in the country knows who you are. You’ve got your job back, and you’ve had offers from the best papers and newsmagazines in the country. Everything you’ve wanted has happened. But you don’t seem happy.”
“I’m happy. Really. Now tell me about Father Francis. What did he do to piss you off?”
She took the bait, which spared him from trying to tell her what he didn’t want to explain—that he’d finally gotten exactly what he wanted out of life, and he hated every minute of it.
Instead of playing ice hockey, he wanted to go on a picnic. Instead of heading for the United Center, he wanted to put a baby girl in a sandbox and throw a Frisbee with her big sister. Instead of dating any of the women who kept coming on to him, he wanted to wrap his arms around a sweet, stubborn First Lady with eyes as blue as an American sky.
A sweet, stubborn First Lady who’d run off with his damn family!
Ann finally stopped talking. “Okay, buddy, I’ve given you some breathing room. Now it’s time to ’fess up. What’s going on?”
The cork he’d shoved so tightly into his self-awareness finally popped. “I’ve screwed up, that’s what.” He started to glower at his sister, but all the fight had run out of him. “I’m in love with Nealy Case.”
22
HE WAS IN love! Mat felt as if he’d taken a hockey puck right to the head. Of all the jerk-off, lame-brained, self-defeating things he’d ever done, taking this long to figure out he loved Nealy was the worst.
If he had to fall in love, why couldn’t it be with someone ordinary? But, no. Not him. Not Mr. Lunkhead. Because that would be too frigging easy! Instead, he had to fall in love with the most famous woman in America!
For the rest of the morning, Ann hovered around him, a pitying look in her eyes. Every once in a while he saw her lips move and knew she was praying over him, which made him want to tell her to keep her damn prayers to herself, except he’d never needed them more, so he pretended not to notice.
He took his sisters to lunch at one of the city’s trendy Clark Street bistros, then fought the urge to ask them not to leave as they headed for their cars or the airport. They kissed him and hugged him and smeared their makeup on another one of his shirts.
That night, his house seemed even lonelier than usual. No sisters ambushing him with their problems. No diapers to change or smart-mouthed teenager to keep an eye on. Even worse, there were no patriot-blue eyes smiling at him.
How could he have been so blind? From the moment they’d met, he’d been drawn to her like hot fudge to ice cream. He’d never enjoyed a woman’s company more, never been so aroused by one. And not just physically, but intellectually and emotionally. If some evil genie came up to him right this minute and said he could have Nealy forever, but they could never make love again, he’d still take her. And what kind of thing was that?
He had it bad.
He couldn’t stand being cooped up inside, so he grabbed his jacket, headed outside, and climbed in the Ford Explorer he’d bought to replace his sports convertible. The car was badly suited to downtown Chicago’s crowded parking, but he’d justified buying it because it handled well
on the expressways, and it was almost big enough to fit him. The truth was, he liked the memories it brought back.
As he drove aimlessly through the narrow streets of Lincoln Park, he tried to figure out what he was supposed to do. He had no idea how deeply Nealy’s feelings ran toward him. She’d enjoyed his company, and she sure as hell liked his lovemaking, but he’d also argued with her, deceived her, and manhandled her, so he could hardly expect her to run into his arms. He could hardly expect her to . . .
Marry him.
He nearly rear-ended a white Subaru. Did he really expect America’s uncrowned queen to bind herself for life to an overgrown Slovak roughneck?
You’re damned right he did.
The next morning he packed up his laptop and his cell phone, threw some clothes in a suitcase, and tossed everything into the Explorer. He called his editor from the road to give him some mumbo-jumbo about a follow-up piece, promised not to blow his deadline for Wednesday’s column, and set the cruise control. He and America’s former First Lady had some serious talking to do.
Nealy’s attorney refused to give him her address, so he used his connections in the Washington press corps, and by the next day he was in Middleburg, Virginia. The house wasn’t visible from the road, but the eight-foot fence that surrounded it was plain to see, along with an elaborate set of electronic gates. He pulled the Explorer into the drive. Her press conference was tomorrow; he prayed she was home getting ready for it.
Above his head, a set of video cameras zeroed in on him. He hoped the fence was electrified, too, and a pack of Dobermans ran loose behind it. He had nightmares about her safety.
“Can I help you?” A man’s voice came from a panel set in the brick.
“Mat Jorik. I’m here to see Mrs. Case.”
“Is she expecting you?”
“Yes,” he lied.
There was a brief pause. “You don’t seem to be on the list.”
“I wasn’t sure when I’d get here. If you ask her, she’ll tell you it’s all right.”
“Hold on.”
He hoped he looked more confident than he felt. Seeing these gates and the spacious grounds that stretched behind them made the gap between him and Nealy real instead of theoretical. He drummed his hands on the steering wheel. Why was it taking so long?