Keeping Council Part 9

The connection was broken. Bill Hamilton hung up, too. He looked over his shoulder, gave Tara a little salute, and killer grin. He walked out of her office firmly established in her life.

Six.

When the other line rang, it startled her. Then it annoyed her. Still listening to the phone in her guest house ring, Tara hesitated, then punched the blinking b.u.t.ton on line one, hoping against hope it was Donna calling from somewhere.

"Tara Limey."

"Where are you?"

It took a minute for Tara to adjust to what she was hearing. This wasn't Donna's little-girl voice crying for help, or wailing over a broken heart.

The voice on the other end of the line was a contralto, not a soprano, and the woman talked about Woodrow Weber, not Bill Hamilton. Tara switched gears.

"Tara? Come on. Woodrow's expecting you."

"Charlotte, I'm waiting"*she stumbled over the lie*"I'm trying to get hold of someone. I can't talk right now. I can't make it tonight."

"But Tara, it's almost seven. I thought you were coming around six."

Charlotte's voice changed, softening to honey.

"I'm sorry. I know you're busy.

It's just that we'd planned on you being here. This is such an important evening. We've got everyone who is anyone here, and you've been asked for more than once."

"Charlotte, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Tara stood up and turned toward the window. The phone cord wrapped around her middle. She pulled it away and let it snap back, anxious as she looked out into night. Last she remembered it had been four-thirty in the afternoon. She'd drafted a letter and attended a deposition that ended before it began when the plaintiffs witness didn't show up.

She'd begun writing a speech that ended up in the trash can, then initiated a list of possible solutions to the problem of Bill Hamilton. Then she started to worry*not about legal ramifications, not about the professional disposition of this predicament*but about Donna.

So Tara started to call. She must have redialed a hundred times and now Charlotte wanted to know where she was. Why wasn't she making small talk with bankers and politicians at Woodrow's fund raiser? Charlotte asked. Well, honey, because a guy who just confessed to killing a woman in cold blood is hanging with my friend. Instead she said, "I don't know where the time went. I don't think I can come."

She begged off, standing firm against Charlotte's noises of hurt and dismay that normally would have reeled her in. Then Tara realized seeing Charlotte was just what she needed to do. Donna and Bill were going to pick her up after the fund raiser. They were out and Tara wasn't where she was supposed to be. She had to be where Donna expected her to be.

"I'll be right over," Tara said quickly, anxious to get off the phone now.

"I'm sorry. I truly am. It was a bad day, I'll be right there."

"Okay. If you're sure," Charlotte said, but now there was a note of concern. If Tara was on edge, she might not be a sterling guest.

"But only if you're up to it. There'll be lots more times."

"Of course. Of course. The sooner we're off the phone, the sooner I'll be there."

"We're right in the lobby. Can't miss us. They still have the tree up. It looks so wonderful. Lots of people are pa.s.sing, talking about what's going on*" "Charlotte," Tara sighed, "hang up. I can't come until you hang up."

"Right. Hurry now."

Tara indulged in necessary primping. Her sun kissed complexion had taken on a sallow cast, her hair looked as if she'd just rolled out of bed. She managed some lipstick, a comb, and a splash of cold water to wake herself up. It would take ten minutes to walk to the hotel; she'd spend forty schmoozing.

Time would pa.s.s more quickly. She couldn't panic.

Nothing was wrong in the guest house. Donna and Bill had gone out. Nothing had happened last night, nothing would happen tonight. Bill needed Tara and he needed her happy. As long as that was true, Donna was safe.

In front of her, past the towering Christmas tree hung with ribbons and bows and dried chiles; past the tiled fountain topped with a spray of impossibly exotic flowers; under the garlanded archway and the towering beamed ceiling; milling about the rough-hewn wooden tables and chairs and the gleaming bar were the shakers and movers who had come to wish Woodrow Weber well and add a little something to his gubernatorial war chest.

It was a good crowd. Thirty or forty people at least.

Charlotte had sounded desperate for Tara's presence, but she'd obviously been missed more by Charlotte than anyone else. She unb.u.t.toned her winter-white melton coat, put on a smile, and found her hostess.

"You made it. Oh, thank you. I was getting so worried. I just don't think things are going very well.

Everyone's being awfully tight-fisted tonight. Maybe you can loosen a few wallets. Look, there's Mrs.

Houghton. She adores you. A word and she'll get that old fogy husband of hers to write a check."

Charlotte had Tara by the elbow and had steered her to the bar.

"What do you want to sip on?"

"Water," Tara said, shaking her head to indicate she wasn't going to be picky tonight. The man behind the bar shot some into a gla.s.s, tossed in a sliver of lime, and handed it to her.

"Thanks."

"So, you want to tackle the Houghtons first?"

"Charlotte, I'm sorry. I don't really feel like tackling anyone. Couldn't I just kind of mingle? You're early anyway on the fund raising. It's not even two weeks since New Year's. Even rich people feel the pinch right after Christmas."

"I can't believe you, of all people, are saying that. You know how much it costs to run a campaign.

Besides, our esteemed governor already has two million backing him. That wife of his pours her own money into his campaign like it was water.

I wish I had something I could give Woodrow.

Something really substantial."

"You give him more than you know," Tara answered, as if by rote.

"Where is he, anyway? I wanted to have a word with him."

"Not about business, I hope. We're leaving all that district attorney stuff until tomorrow. Promise it won't be about business, and I'll find him."

"Okay. No business," Tara answered reluctantly, hoping Charlotte would disappear long enough for her to find out what Woodrow knew about the Circle K matter.

"Go mingle. I'll find him and be back."

Charlotte was gone, touching an elbow here, whispering in an ear there, doing her candidate's wife thing so beautifully Tara was impressed. Charlotte was gobbled up. Tara was on her own. She wandered, her eyes roving toward the door over and over again. She half expected to see Donna burst through it wild-eyed as she screamed for help, Bill Hamilton after her with a gun in his hand. Tara shook her head to clear it. An a.s.sistant U.S. attorney she'd been casually acquainted with tried to catch her eye across the room. She turned the other way, toward the phones. One more call. Just in case they had simply been outside watching the river, taking a walk, doing something normal and safe. Just in case Donna hadn't heard the phone.

Tara turned sideways, murmured her apologies, held her drink above her head, and managed to slip into the alcove without being stopped for a conversation. Leaning against the wood, she put her sparkling water on the right side of the phone, her purse on the left, then leaned her head back and closed her eyes. Her head was splitting. Funny she hadn't noticed it before. A wave of laughter erupted from the party. Tara smiled. It was nice where she was. A good place to wait.

"Need a quarter?"

She opened up her eyes. The first thing she saw was a corroded quarter. The second thing she saw was a most attractive hand. Then she saw an arm.

But it wasn't held out to her, it was held up. Tara looked down and hoped she was hallucinating.

There was Ben Crawford. She'd thought about meeting him like this*by surprise*often enough.

She'd even thought about what she might say. She would be warm. They would exchange pleasantries, maybe become misty-eyed if the pleasantries lasted long enough. They would part. An awkward meeting made bearable because the suspense was over; a volatile situation finally diffused. But this wasn't any day and Tara wasn't ready for this particular surprise.

Her stomach fluttered. Her mouth went dry.

Her lips parted and no sophisticated, inspired words eased her through these first awkward moments.

Her hands were orphaned. She found no place where they felt graceful or casual or even comfortable.

Tara's eyes darted here and there, finally resting on Ben and locking onto eyes that had grown older, but no less kind. Under that gaze, Tara's faltered.

Her eyes skittered away and she found herself looking at the wheelchair in which he sat. Immediately, she looked back at his face, a safer focus.

"I'd almost given up on you. If I'd known you were hiding, I would have started seeking sooner.

Woodrow never did know how to throw a party."

"Ben, I ..." What was there to say?

How've you been the last twenty-four years? Like your chair. Do you mind I didn't call Any chance you're ever going to walk again? Did you miss me when I stopped coming by ? Did you He awake knowing why ? Wondering why the letters stopped coming? I did.

But Ben was gracious, and Ben was good, and Tara felt her heart a little blackened because in his greeting there were no accusations, only pleasure that he'd found her here.

"Okay. Be that way," he said sweetly.

"Don't talk.

Bend down here and give me a hug."

She did, grateful for his mercy when he could have exacted a pound of flesh. Tara rested her hands on the hard black arms of the wheelchair, and closing her eyes, she lay her lips against his cheek, realizing it was no longer fear in the pit of her stomach, but that age-old draw of him that swelled inside her. He smelled so good. A man's scent where once there had only been the changing essence of a boy. He was strong too. The arm that wrapped around the back of her was iron-like, unbreakable, secure. But her eyes opened as she knew they must. She saw his legs, shriveled and useless, as she backed off.

"How are you?" Tara said automatically. She lay her hand on her purse, knowing she looked like a colt ready to bolt.

"I'm fine. You look miserable, though. Need to make that call, or can I interest you in a quiet corner and a sympathetic ear? You look like you could use both."

Tara chuckled self-consciously, "I don't think there's a quiet corner to be had out there. In fact, I'm surprised to find you here. I didn't know you were interested in politics."

"I'm not. Charlotte told me you were going to be here."

"Did she send you to find me?"

Ben looked over his shoulder. Charlotte was watching. He gave her a little wave. He smiled, then looked at Tara.

"Yes."

Now she really did laugh.

"Honest as always. I always thought that was an odd trait in high school. You and I were probably the only ones who had perfected the art of telling the truth."

"Except to each other?" Ben asked. Tara's expression clouded.

"I don't think I'm up for this discussion tonight, Ben. It's great to see you, but*" He held out his hand. She was going to leave and he didn't want that.

"I'm sorry. You're right. That was clumsy. There's just so much to catch up on."

"And you want to start where we left off? Not exactly the most pleasant time in our lives." Tara slapped her purse under her arm.

"I thought maybe we could start with the basics. What do you do?

Married? Kids?"

"Psychologist. No. I don't think so," Ben said quickly, adding softly, "I'm sorry."

Tara took a deep breath. She held it. She looked to the ceiling. They were in a small s.p.a.ce. It would be tight for two people standing. It was impossible with Ben's chair. She had to get out of there and he seemed to know that. He twirled his chair. No more than a flick of those hands*lovely, masculine hands*on the chrome wheels. If she didn't know better, she would have sworn he'd turned on his heels.

"Wait," she said, hurrying after him though it was only a few steps.

"It's okay. I wasn't leaving," Ben said seriously.

"It's the only way I know to back off. You can't possibly think I'm going to make this easy for you." It took thirty seconds for his eyes to soften and crinkle and for Tara to understand that he was teasing. Not much had really changed about Ben*not much and yet everything.

"No, I wouldn't expect you would. I guess I'd kind of gotten it into my head that this town was big enough for both of us."

"It is," Ben agreed, "no matter how we decide to live in it. Sorry I came back?"

Ben began to move forward. Tara fell in step beside him.

"I don't think that's for me to say," Tara answered.

"Maybe not, but it's something I need to hear."

Ben's fingers moved lightly over the wheels.

"You forgot your drink. What were you having?"

They had made it to the fringe of the crowd.