“I already talked to my parents.”
“Really?”
“Really.” Now she was laughing at him. “I told them I really liked Beethoven.”
Bryce sat back slowly. “I thought you said you wanted to think about it.”
“I did think about it. All the way up to the front door.”
“Are you kidding me?” he asked suspiciously.
“No, Bryce, I’m not kidding you.” Then suddenly her voice became serious. “But there’s one condition.”
“What?”
“I don’t want it to be all one sided. I don’t want you to hold back what you are thinking and feeling.”
He thought about that. “All right, but I really am willing to listen to your side.”
“How willing?”
He sensed a trap but didn’t care. She had said yes. That was enough. “Willing willing. Why?”
“Would you like to come to dinner Sunday?”
That really threw him, but he had the answer processed in milliseconds. “I’d be delighted. But what has that got to do with being willing to listen?”
“You think I’m an avid constitutionalist?” she said, her voice suddenly teasing. “Just wait until you meet my father.”
Chapter 10
In some ways, the next two weeks were like a cross-country flight—for the most part smooth, but with occasional patches of turbulence.
The concert at the Kennedy Center went without a hitch, and Bryce was delighted to find that Leslie had the same deep love for classical music he did. Dinner at the Adams home the following day turned out to be a more pleasant experience than he had expected. Leslie was the eldest of three children, and Bryce was an instant hit with Kellie, a sixteen-year-old younger version of Leslie, and Keith, a mischievous and yet delightfully bright twelve-year-old. The conversation had barely touched on the amendment, and so Leslie’s solemn prediction about her father had gone unfulfilled. The one time Paul Adams turned the conversation in that direction, his wife shot him such a look that Bryce had to bite back a smile. What he would have liked to have known was, who had given the warning—Leslie or her mother.
On Monday he picked Leslie up after work. They went to Old Georgetown, leisurely strolled through the shops, had dinner, then walked for almost an hour through the posh residences. When they returned to her home, her parents were in the living room, her father reading, her mother doing counted cross-stitch. It was that night that Bryce came to realize why Nathaniel Gorham had gone to such trouble to set things up between him and Leslie at the Marriott Hotel. Between Leslie and her father, Bryce was suddenly getting all the pro-Constitution arguments he could handle.
They had dinner twice more at the Adams home, and now any restrictions on Paul Adams had been lifted. Dessert was barely over before the kids were off to do other things and the debate picked up where it left off the time before.
Paul Adams, a tall, wiry fifty-year-old, taught history and political philosophy at Georgetown University. He was articulate, had a quick wit, and was brilliant in debate. It was not hard to see where Leslie got her rapier tongue and deep, passionate patriotism.
Vera Adams, a gentle woman of immense graciousness, reminded Bryce of his own mother. For the most part, she would sit back, content to watch her husband and daughter lead out in the conversation. But when she spoke, she almost always made a telling point. Occasionally, when the debate became too fierce, she would even jump in on Bryce’s side, much to his gratitude.
But that in no way meant Bryce was going down to defeat. In some ways, it was just the opposite. He found that the debates forced him to crystalize and articulate his own thoughts and feelings. It was excellent preparation for the coming battle over ratification. Though officially Bryce would stay with Senator Hawkes until the day after Labor Day, he and Elliot Mannington were meeting regularly now to plan strategy and set up the national network for the campaign. Often Bryce would serve as the devil’s advocate and throw Paul Adams’s logic at the chairman of the Committee for Constitutional Reform, telling Mannington they needed to sharpen their response to the opposition. And Mannington was no mean opponent. He seemed to relish the challenge and would tackle Bryce’s arguments headon, providing some excellent rebuttals. Then Bryce would take that and his own thoughts back to the next session at Leslie’s home. It was a roller-coaster ride, but he loved it.
And yet some days, he and Leslie seemed content, almost glad, to set the whole subject aside and let the relationship have its head. One Saturday they spent a lazy afternoon playing in the surf of the Atlantic. Another, they spent all day wandering through the numerous buildings of the Smithsonian.
That night, after a visit to the little pizza restaurant Bryce had told her about, they came back into the city and walked slowly along the Mall, past the Reflecting Pool, talking quietly of trivial things, sometimes not talking at all. They ended inside the Lincoln Memorial, and there, beneath Lincoln’s brooding gaze, he kissed her for the first time. She pulled back, looking up into his face, her eyes troubled. But finally she just sighed and laid her head against his shoulder, letting him hold her.
The following Saturday they went on what Bryce called his “Civil War orientation tour.” They visited a couple of national battlefield monuments; stopped at Richmond, capital of the Confederacy; swung over to Appomattox, where General Lee signed the surrender document that ended the Civil War; then ended at the elegant and serene Monticello, home of Thomas Jefferson. It was dark by the time Bryce pulled the car up outside her house and turned off the engine.
Leslie laid back with a contented sigh and closed her eyes. “Thank you, Bryce. That was a delightful day.”
“Thank you.” Then he laughed softly. “You know how inadequate you make me feel?”
She opened her eyes in surprise. “Inadequate? Why?”
“I minored in American History at Harvard. And yet I learned as much today as I did in my whole undergraduate career.”
She smiled, closing her eyes again. “Is wild exaggeration a typical Sherwood family trait?”
“No, I mean it. You made those places come alive. I’ve studied about those battles, but you can tell me exactly what happened and their overall importance to the Civil War. You know every monument, every item in the museums and why they’re significant. I was impressed.”
She turned and laid her head against him, snuggling in as he put his arms around her. “Well, even if it is a shameless lie,” she murmured contentedly, “I love it. Keep it up.”
He laid his cheek against her hair, his mind returning to something that had happened that afternoon. They had been walking across the great sweep of lawn that fell away from the graceful mansion at Monticello. They were holding hands and Leslie’s head was half turned, looking at the view below them. And suddenly, at that instant, it had hit Bryce with a jolt how much this dark-haired, emerald-eyed woman was coming to mean to him. It was sobering, for he wasn’t sure that Leslie felt the same. That she cared for him was clear enough. But at that moment he realized that he was thinking more and more in terms of long-range commitments, something he had never done before.
She turned her head to look up at him. “Tell me what you are thinking.”
He looked into her eyes for several moments, almost sinking into their depths, then leaned down and kissed her softly. “I was thinking,” he said, when he pulled back, “that this was a great day. Thank you.”
“Ummm,” she murmured. “It was for me too.” She reached up, touching his cheek. “One of the best yet.” Then she straightened and kissed him back, a warm, soft acceptance of his thanks.
When she finally pulled away, her eyes were shining.
“Leslie, I—”
Her hand flew up, and she pressed one finger to his lips. “No. Not tonight, Bryce.”
His eyes widened in surprise. Had she known what he was going to say?
“We’ll come back to reality tomorrow. But let’s not spoil today.”
“Okay.” H
e sighed, wishing something could somehow just wipe away the differences that lay between them.
“Speaking of tomorrow, Mom wants to know if you would like to come to dinner.”
He shook his head. “You know I always enjoy that, but I’m starting to feel guilty about how much I’m over here.”
“Look, Mr. Sherwood,” she said with a laugh. “My mother is a quiet woman, but underneath it all she’s every bit as strong minded as my father.”
“And her older daughter,” he said with mock gravity.
She smiled. “That too. But when Mom says ask Bryce to dinner, I ask you to dinner, and you’ll just have to live with your guilt, Mr. Sherwood.”
Leslie’s mother shooed Bryce and her husband out of the kitchen with gentle but insistent firmness. Leslie smiled at Bryce, and he finally surrendered. He tossed Leslie the dish towel and went out into the living room where her father was waiting. Evidently, Bryce had left him smarting a little after their last session, and he had barely sat down before Paul picked up the discussion exactly where it had left off. Bryce smiled to himself. No wonder Gorham hadn’t appeared to him for the last week or so. There was no need. He couldn’t have a better advocate for his position than Paul Adams.
But on this Sunday afternoon, somehow the mood imperceptibly changed. Paul said something about the logical fallacies of “Bryce’s amendment,” and Bryce retorted a little more sharply than he had intended. Paul fired right back, and suddenly the usual amiability was gone. They were head to head, impassioned, intense, their voices rising.
Leslie was suddenly at the doorway, bringing them both to silence. She didn’t meet the gaze of either of them, just looked out the window. “Bryce and I are going to walk down to the park for a while.”
Her mother was suddenly beside her. “Good idea.” She gave her husband a sharp look.
Bryce stood, puzzled, and yet glad for the reprieve. “Thanks again for the dinner, Mrs. Adams. It was great as usual.”
“You’re welcome.” She looked at Leslie. “You go on now. We’ll have some pie in an hour or so.”
“Leslie?”
She looked up from where she had been pulling up blades of grass and making a little pile in her lap.
“What’s the matter?”
She shook her head, suddenly fighting tears.
Bryce moved over and put his arm around her. “What is it?”
Again she shook her head, turning away so he couldn’t see her.
He took his arm off her shoulder, and leaned back, debating whether to venture a guess. Then he had a better idea. He raised his hand, and with his finger began tracing letters on her back. I L-O-V-
“Please, Bryce, don’t.”
He took her firmly by the shoulders and turned her around. “I do,” he said softly. “Don’t ask me how it happened, but I do love you.”
“I told you it would come to this.” She brushed away the grass from her skirt, not looking up.
“To what?”
“There in the living room, with Dad.”
“What?”
“He was saying nothing more than what I believe.”
“I know that.”
“But suddenly I was angry with him.”
“With your father?” he echoed in surprise. “Why?”
“For what he was doing to you.”
Bryce just stared at her, not sure he understood.
“It’s tearing me apart. I’m so sure that he’s right and you’re wrong. But suddenly I find myself saying that I don’t care whether you’re wrong or not. I don’t want him hurting you.”
He reached out and touched her cheek, moved by what he saw in her eyes. “He’s not hurting me. That was our deal. I told you I wanted to hear your side of things. We just got a little warmer than usual today.”
“I know, but it’s more than that. Nothing has changed. Has it?”
He thought about that, searching his own feelings. “Perhaps. I don’t know what to think sometimes. You and your father have some reasoning that’s pretty hard to answer.”
“And so do you.” Her head came up in challenge. “Are you ready to turn in your resignation to Elliot Mannington?”
That caught him off guard. “I…No, not really.”
“Exactly my point. And so we just keep making it more and more difficult.”
He straightened. “That may be. I’m not sure of all my philosophical feelings any more, but this much I do know. I know how I feel about you.”
She forced a smile through the tears. “You think that makes it easier?”
“It would if I knew you felt the same way.”
The tears welled up again and spilled over. “Don’t you know?” she whispered. “Do you have to ask?”
He nodded. “I’m pretty dense. I don’t read nonverbal cues very well.”
She threw her arms around him and buried her head against his shoulder. “I love you, Bryce Sherwood. Darn it all, I love you too.”
Bryce laughed right out loud. “That’s the most tender confession I’ve ever heard.”
She sniffed, laughing now too, in spite of herself. “It’s not funny. I don’t want to love you.”
He took her into his arms and kissed her gently. “Well, force yourself.”
He held her that way for a long time, both of them silent; then Bryce sat bolt upright.
“What?”
He was staring at her, his mind racing.
She sat up now too. “What?”
“Oh, wow,” he said, shaking his head. “This is going to sound crazy.”
She laughed. “More crazy than what I just said?”
“Yes.” He took a breath. “Leslie, I…”
She waited, watching him closely, sensing his sudden excitement.
“You start teaching tomorrow?”
“Yes, why?”
“How early could you be through on Friday?”
“Probably by two or two-thirty. Why?”
“Why don’t you come to Boston with me? No, wait,” he rushed on, when her mouth dropped open. “You’ll love Cape Cod. And our summer home up there is big enough. You’d have your own bedroom. There’s only my eighteen-year-old sister at home now. My brother’s in medical school at Stanford. Mom and Dad would love to have you. We’ll leave right from school and come back Labor Day evening.”
She was staring at him incredulously. Finally she shook her head in wonder. “And this is supposed to be a solution to our problem?”
“I know. I told you it would sound crazy, but just listen. This will give us a chance to really talk things out. No more debates. No more arguments. We’ll just talk about us. What we’re feeling. Where we’re going. Sort the whole thing out.”
She was looking dubious and so he rushed on. “You haven’t lived until you’ve spent some time in Cape Cod. We’ll go sailing. Lay on the beach and burn. Explore the little villages.”
“Wait!” she said, throwing up her hands. “I feel like I just tangled with the Massachusetts Chamber of Commerce.”
He grinned. “Sorry.”
“That won’t solve our basic problem, Bryce,” she started, then quickly put her hand over his mouth when he started to protest. “No, you listen. This will only make it harder.”
He nodded, moving her hand away gently. “I know what you’re saying, and I understand. But we’ll talk it out, just you and me. There’ll be no Elliot Mannington. No Senator Hawkes.” He grinned. “No Paul Adams. Just you and me.”
“And what if we can’t?” she said sadly. “What if we can’t work it out?”
He took a deep breath, not wanting to consider that possibility. “Then I’ll do whatever you think is right.”
“Oh, no. That’s not fair.”
He grinned. “Okay, then you’ll do whatever I think is right.”
She poked him hard in the ribs.
“Leslie,” he said, sobering, “I don’t know what we’ll do. But I want to give it every chance, do whatever it takes. Okay?”
S
uddenly she was smiling. “Is your father going to badger me like mine does you?”
“Oh, no,” he responded. “My worry is my mother.”
“Your mother?”
“Yes. I have never taken a girl home with me before. She is going to go absolutely bananas.”
Chapter 11
One thing you had to say for Elliot Mannington. He never did anything halfway. Not even lunch. The Ristorante Mediterranean, a long brick building with a red tile roof, sat on the brow of a low hill, not far below the Arlington National Cemetery. It wasn’t much of a rise, but still the city, shimmering in the summer heat, stretched out below them. As they waited to order, Bryce let his eyes run over the familiar landmarks—the Washington Monument, the Jefferson and Lincoln Memorials, and, almost lost in the haze, the dome of the Capitol.
With Leslie starting school, Bryce hadn’t seen her since Sunday, but they had a date for tomorrow night. It would be here, he decided. At night the view must be spectacular. Then Friday, it was off for Cape Cod. He was looking forward to that with more anticipation than he had anything for some time.
Mannington took a sip of water, letting his gaze roam over the scene as well. “Quite a town, isn’t it? If we get this amendment passed, and we will,” his arm swept out in the direction of the city below them, “then you can write your own ticket down there.”
Suddenly Bryce remembered what Gorham had said about Senator Hawkes in the car that morning. On impulse, Bryce picked up his spoon and starting drawing patterns on the napkin. “What if Senator Hawkes decides not to retire next term?” he asked casually.
Mannington shot him a quick look, then laughed. “Don’t you worry about that. Ben won’t be a problem. We’ll get him an ambassadorship or something.”
We? Bryce thought. It was rumored that Mannington had almost open access to the White House, but…Suddenly the feelings of uncertainty began to well up again.
Mannington seemed not to sense the change in his mood. As they finished dessert, he leaned back comfortably, took out a gold case, and extracted a cigarette. He tapped it lightly on the table, watching Bryce. “Are you going home for the recess?”