Zachary's Christmas Page 5

Anne stood in the center of the foyer with one arm out of her parka, not waiting for him to assist her. But she was frozen in place facing the Living Room archway in the awkward position of shoulder and elbow still raised even though the coat had slid free on that side.

  Just stepping into the far side of the hall, Cornelia came out to see who the new arrival might be. There couldn’t be a greater contrast in two women.

  Anne as five-six of healthy and vigorous Tennessean. From the back he could see Anne’s ponytail was held by a black rubber band. And she’d opted for no more than a well-tailored black denim shirt that matched her designer jeans. She looked modern and ready to join one of Mom’s Olympic swimming teams.

  “Hello, I’ve read so much about you,” Cornelia, of course, smoothing the way with her perfect manners.

  # # #

  “And I know nothing about you,” Anne shook the woman’s hand. It would have taken a water buffalo to miss Cornelia’s insinuating tone. She’d read every single journalist’s summary of Anne Darlington and probably ordered up an FBI report besides.

  Anne thought about trying out a crushing-guy-grip thing, but it would fracture the woman’s perfect manicure. Cornelia’s cool gaze assessed and discarded Anne as a hick from the wilderness. This was exactly the sort of woman she’d expect the Vice President to be with—long, cool, and elegant. And he was with her, clearly Anne’s arrival had interrupted something. So what was she doing here if he already had—

  “She’s my assistant. My right hand,” the Vice President stepped forward. “Anne this is Cornelia Day. This is Dr. Darlington’s sister, Anne Darlington.”

  “A pleasure,” Cornelia spoke with all the warmth of the December evening, dark and bitter on the other side of the door. Assistant or not, she was dancing along the thin edge of rude. Anne had obviously trampled on forbidden territory.

  Cornelia was six-one of DC elegant—not a hair out of place and her silk blouse perfectly complemented both her complexion and the Merino wool slacks that reached down to her two-inch heels: so five-foot-eleven of Cornelia and two inches of Kate Spades. She looked ready to take on a shark—either the aquatic or the legal kind—and there would be no doubting the victor in any contest. In the elegant reception hall of the Vice Presidential residence, Cornelia looked the perfect hostess. And before her, Anne felt as if she’d been beamed down from another world onto the center of the immaculate white Persian carpet to be glared at by Kennedy and the two Roosevelts.

  One Observatory Circle was an elegant 1800s mansion built on the grounds of the National Observatory. She’d been captivated by the wide verandah that wrapped around the house. She’d gathered a few facts about it from the Secret Service agent who Daniel had insisted on sending rather than letting her take a cab. She’d been in dozens of the finest homes across the South. Many had far more pretention than this home, but few had such perfection and such artifacts.

  “It’s Dr. Melanie Anne Darlington, actually,” a fact Anne typically played down. And in these elegant surroundings, she sounded pretentious but she couldn’t stop herself.

  Cornelia faced her directly, her shoulders squared beneath her Armani jacket. “Dr. Darlington. Bachelors in English Literature. MBA. Doctorate in Plant Sciences. All at University of Tennessee.” She’d obviously done her homework.

  “Yes,” Anne acknowledged. “Valedictorian in all cases, you might add.”

  “I’m just a USAF captain—retired,” Zachary chimed as if oblivious to the battle forming up in his front foyer. “That leaves me out of the running in this high-powered room.”

  Anne reached for a sense of humor in the situation, but had trouble finding it at first. Then she did, “Well, one of the three of us is also Vice President of the United States. I’m not sure that actually counts for much, but it must be worth something. Perhaps you can barter it for a free ice cream at the Lincoln Memorial.”

  Zachary nodded, “I hadn’t thought of trying that. I’ll give it a go next time I’m there.”

  But Cornelia Tight-ass scowled at Anne’s light tone. Apparently even making fun of the Vice Presidential office was forbidden.

  Then the Vice President changed topics as if nothing was going on. “Cornelia, in the briefing package for the climate meeting, I need a breakdown of each of the G-20’s actual conservation efforts in the last decade. Hard numbers, not guesses from some analyst who doesn’t give a damn.”

  She produced a tablet computer in an expensive red leather case that was as elegant as she was and made a notation.

  “I think that’s it.”

  “Very good, sir,” she walked to the coat closet as if she was completely at home here. But Anne was secretly pleased that she did so with all the stiffness of the stick they had each just rammed up the other’s butt.

  Anne was glad for the thick white area rug that covered much of the hall because the way Cornelia was walking, her heels would have worked like jackhammers on the hardwood flooring that showed around the edges. Each step shook her slender frame with its intensity.

  At the door she turned for what Anne feared was one last scathing attack, but all she said was, “Eight a.m. meeting with the Speaker on the Hill, Mr. Vice President. Good night, sir.”

  When the door closed, Anne sighed with relief. “Is she really gone?”

  The Vice President didn’t answer, but remained staring at the inside of the door.

  Anne moved up beside him so that they could stare at it together.

  “I certainly didn’t see that coming,” he said softly.

  “I thought you didn’t see it at all.”

  “Not blind, Dr. Darlington,” then he grimaced at the door. “Well, not completely blind. Cornelia has been with me for seven years and never gave me a single signal.”

  Anne was on the verge of calling him blind again, but decided in favor of a far softer, “Well, you’ve been given a clear signal now, I’d say.” She’d have gone for it with her brother, but it wasn’t nice to kick a Vice President when he was down.

  He nodded his agreement reluctantly.

  “Are you sure you want me to stay? At some point I’m going to be gone again,” or fall off the edge of the planet, “and you clearly depend on her.”

  He shook it off and turned from the door to face her but she could still see the concern remaining.

  “No, please stay. Besides, I’m guessing…” then he smiled, abruptly at ease. “I’d lay three-to-one odds that I’m not the one in the doghouse here.”

  “That makes no sense at all.”

  He took her parka and carried it to the front closet. “I rather think it’s about you not being good enough for me. I’ve dated before and never had this reaction from her.”

  Anne certainly hoped that’s what it was. She wasn’t even good enough for herself and she’d come to terms with that…or was trying to. At least that was a playing field she understood.

  “You know what I need, Mr. Vice President?”

  “What, Dr. Darlington?”

  “I need a beer. Please tell me that you don’t just have white wine.”

  “Yes!” He pumped a fist in the air. “If you tell me that you like football, I’m not letting you leave.”

  “College or pro?” It was an important question among football fans.

  “College of course,” his smile was electric for her knowing there was a distinction in the first place. “The Air Force Academy Falcons.”

  “Might have watched a game or two…in which the Tennessee Volunteers totally tromped their flyboy behinds,” Anne crowed with delight and began feeling much better about how the evening was going. “Seem to recall a total choke back in 2006.” The two teams were in different conferences, so the meet-ups were few and far between.

  “One point. Give me break. We went for the two-point conversion—”

  “And missed it! And don’t even get me go
ing on the 1971 Sugar Bowl, 34 to 13.”

  Zachary groaned as if it was yesterday even though neither of them had been alive back then. “We tromped the Army this year,” he offered as a lame recovery. “Just like I bet we did to Stanford last night. I recorded the game but haven’t watched it yet. Do not tell me.”

  “I would nev-ah,” she placed an offended hand upon her chest in mock horror. “But it may or may not have been just like what the Navy did when they whupped your behinds last month,” she slapped the verbal football back down in his turf.

  He stopped and looked down at her, “How did you know all that?”

  She offered her best smile, “It’s either because I’m a Southern football genius or it’s because I can use the Internet just as well as Ms. Cornelia Day.” Or because she had a younger cousin on the Navy team. “The key question you should be focusing on at the moment, Mr. Vice President, is the location of my beer.”

  # # #

  Once they’d crossed through the formal Dining Room into the Pantry Kitchen for a couple of tall cold ones, Zack led her on a tour of the house. As soon as the words, “It’s in the Queen Anne style,” were out of his mouth, he stopped using any other name for her. As with everything else, she simply took being dubbed “Queen Anne” in stride.

  “I always did want to be queen for a day.”

  True to the form popular in the late 1800s, the first floor had few hallways and fewer doors, one room simply opened onto the next. The broad veranda curved around the cylindrical three-story turret that defined the southeast corner of the house. On the first floor, the circular room extended off the Living Room.

  “The Christmas tree is usually in that nook of the Reception Hall; they move out the grand piano,” he pointed with the neck of his bottle. “This year I had them put it here in the turret. I like the way the lights reflect off all of the windows.”

  “And I see that’s the sole decorating decision you’ve made about the house in the five years you’ve been here.”

  “Perhaps.” He looked around. The mansion was exactly as he’d received it. White area rugs with understated floral designs, stark white couches and chairs, and muted wallpaper that—now that he thought about it—made it feel more like a museum than a home. Without anyone to share it with, he hadn’t been motivated him to make it a home. It wasn’t something his family had much skill at.

  He led her back through the Reception Hall, past the elegant staircase that climbed up through the core of the house in successive turns, and into the Library—the only room he really used other than the bedroom. His sole mark here was the half dozen shelves of thriller novels he read when he was too sick of State Department reports. He thought about the upstairs, he hadn’t even changed the quilt that had been on the master bed. “Okay, more than perhaps.”

  “Same problem I have. Couldn’t care in the least.”

  Again Zack was left to scratch his head in Queen Anne’s wake. Each of the women he’d dated had said almost identical things on entering the house, “It’s so beautiful. There’s so much you could do with it.” Even the ever-practical Cornelia had made a few comments about the availability of other furnishings from whatever department took care of such things. He had exchanged the JFK portrait between the bookshelves with a picture from home, but that was all he’d done.

  Anne simply didn’t care.

  The Library was the most comfortable room in the house. There was room for a sofa and several armchairs. Arches led to the Reception Hall and Living Room with a small doorway leading into the Garden Room. He’d never been much of a one for plants, but some Navy steward had maintained it well enough for Anne to remark, “Nice.”

  To the north was a broad bay window looking out over the Observatory grounds during the day. To the south stood the bookcases and a television. If he wasn’t entertaining, this was where he spent most of his time at home.

  On one shelf he had a half dozen pictures that Anne had stopped in front of. He moved up behind her, close behind her, and enjoyed the feeling that they were almost embracing—definitely close enough to…

  Seeking distraction, he looked over her head, “The family.”

  “I can see them both in you. Are they close?”

  “As close as they want to be, I suppose. Which means if either one fell off the edge of the world, the other might or might not notice. They’re both quite driven people in their own, deeply separate fields.”

  “And you became Vice President by sitting around on your lazy behind.”

  “Absolutely! Best method there is. Also, I should warn you that I was always the black sheep of the family, caring about people as people rather than for their roles on the ever-precious team.” She didn’t glance up at the surprising amount of bitterness that had slipped into his tone, having instead the courtesy to let him recover his equilibrium without comment.

  In an unconsciously smooth sideways move she shifted from the narrow space between himself and his family photographs, to inspect the one larger picture from home—the one that had usurped JFK’s place of honor. He had to smile at himself, don’t underestimate Queen Anne Darlington. She had just given him the space to recover; as wholly conscious a movement as him sidling close behind her in the first place.

  “Is this a real train yard or your model?”

  Even his father had not picked up on that. Zack had spent hours making sure every detail of his miniature train yard had been perfect, hazing the photo just enough to make it art rather than a model railroader’s brag piece. He was inordinately proud of that image, but it also made him a little sad as he’d never had anyone to share it with.

  When he didn’t answer her, she looked at him, directly at him for the first time since when she’d crossed over the front threshold. She didn’t speak, but just studied him.

  “What?” His throat had suddenly gone dry.

  “I think Mr. Vice President that it is dangerous for two such lonely people to stand here in such silence.”

  Lonely? But he was almost never alone. His typical day ran from seven a.m. to seven p.m. Late evenings he often as not had dinner meetings or reports to study, phone calls to return to earlier time zones to garner favor for a key piece of legislation, or…

  “Lonely?” he managed a whisper but it didn’t sound like much of a question.

  “I think we have two choices,” Anne remained serious and, unlike usual, he couldn’t detect any hidden smile waiting with a joke.

  “Which are?”

  “You had mentioned a Falcons’ game you recorded. Option one, we can sit on that couch and watch it.” This is where he usually watched games and somehow Anne had figured that out. Sitting close beside her was an attractive option. He could see them laughing together over pizza, beer, and touchdowns—could see it very easily.

  “Or?”

  “Or,” she took a very deep breath that caused some very nice shifts down her body that he did his decent best to ignore. “Or, we can just acknowledge where this is going and you can show me where the Vice President sleeps.”

  Zack Thomas had received many offers of sex over the years: some coy, some blatant, some little classier than a street walker’s offer. He didn’t think that he’d ever in his life received a more sincere offer than Anne’s forthright statement.

  He knew that with her it wasn’t an offer of sex, it would be so much more than that. He didn’t need to answer.

  She stepped up to him and slipped the beer bottle from his fingers. She set both of them on coasters on the low white coffee table, then she held out her hand. When he took it, her touch was cool with condensation from the barely touched bottle, but her clasp remained firm as he led her to the central stairs and up into his bedroom.

  # # #

  Anne had not planned on ending up here. Hadn’t even thought about it. But looking at the train picture, something had shifted deep inside for her.
The care it must have taken. Every car had been meticulously real despite its tiny size. The rail yard hadn’t merely been a clustering of narrowly-spaced parallel tracks. Instead tiny bits of gravel little bigger than sand grains had been spread all through the yard. Switching lights, yard workers, and even a tiny lone dog sniffing a wheel of the foremost engine. She could only imagine what it took to be the boy who’d done that.

  When Zack reached for the light, she stopped his hand. Outside the winter might be cold, but it was also clear and the moon was a bright slash on the thick carpeting. In the room’s warmth, the cold light warmed as well. Keeping their hands joined, she turned to face him and rested her other hand on his chest.

  “This would be a good time to kiss me, Mr. Vice President.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” he nuzzled her hair. “Isn’t it a bit presumptuous of me to think of bedding the expedition leader? Sounds like a court-martial offense to me. I want to approach this cautiously.”

  “If it’s going to be your last night on earth, I’d suggest we enjoy it.”

  “You may have a point. Tonight we make love, for…” His hand was stroking her hair. With only one small snag, he freed it from the rubber band. He leaned down to kiss her where neck and her shirt’s collar met beneath her freed hair.

  “…tomorrow we might freeze to death. Or Cornelia might have me killed.” She allowed her own hands to admire the softness of his beard, his strong jaw, and trace down over his very nice chest.

  “Or Daniel might convince the President to send me on an extended tour of darkest Florida to be eaten by alligators.” He mumbled into her ear.

  “Don’t miss Disney World as you head south. It’s great fun,” she loosened his tie, slipped it off his head, and at an opportune moment, slid it over hers.

  “I was thinking more of Wolf Creek Pass.” He removed her blouse and the bra followed quickly after. His lightest touch made her want more, his caresses were intense enough to unbalance her soul.

  “What’s that?” Anne had the sneaking suspicion that they weren’t going to make it the last few steps to the bed.