Leigh (22 page)

Leigh lacked the will even to object.

Their hands were acknowledged, and Leigh let Nancy draw her to the back of the room to meet the other delegates on the committee.
The man who’d been watching her from the front of the room left the platform and walked toward them, his eyes on Leigh.

* * *

Later, after buying lunch at the campaign headquarters, Leigh, along with the other delegates and volunteers, walked outside
the McGovern headquarters in Washington, D.C., and paused at the corner of 19th and K. The campaign workers were all picnicking
on a grassy slope nearby.

“So what do you think of McGovern’s idea of giving everyone in America a thousand dollars?” Trent Kinnard, the man who’d been
staring at her earlier, asked Leigh. Trent was older than she and did not wear denim or polyester bell-bottoms but a crisp,
summer-weight suit in light tan. His wide tie was salmon pink, and his black hair had just a touch of gray at the temples
and was just long enough to give him a raffish air. Altogether he was a polished, expensive package.

Holding a white-plastic plate of quiche in one hand and a green bottle of Coke in the other, Leigh concentrated on finding
a place to sit. She’d purposefully not replied to anything Trent had said to her or in her direction so far. She wasn’t in
the mood to be charmed.

“Still not talking?” He grinned at her. “You know, you’re the most beautiful Democrat at the meetings—does that mean you can’t
be bothered talking to the
hoipolloi?”

She gave him a sharp glance. “I’m always wary of men who are as suave as you are.”

“I’m crushed. My hopes dashed,” he teased.

She grimaced, knowing she was being borderline rude. Still, she couldn’t drop into easy conversation. Silently she walked
to a place on the grass and sat down modestly in her miniskirt.

“I don’t remember seeing you,” he proceeded undaunted, “at any of the Democratic fundraisers or McGovern rallies.”

“I’ve been busy with family business this year.”

“Then how did you become a delegate?” he asked, sounding sincere for the first time.

“I’m a replacement.” She closed her eyes for a moment, wishing him away. She didn’t want to feel attractive, desirable.

“I see. Have you heard about the break-in a few days ago?

“What break-in?” she asked automatically.

“It happened on the eighteenth. Five people broke into the Watergate Hotel—into the Democratic National Committee suite.”

“Some radical group?” Memories of what had happened to her stepfather and Dane when they’d investigated one of these groups
stole what appetite she had.

“Three Cubans, a Miami businessman, and a former CIA security specialist.”

“What a strange group.” She put her fork down and sipped her cold Coke.

“They’ve all been charged with breaking and entering. Some people think they were acting for the Republican Party.”

“I have a hard time believing that.”

Trent shrugged. “All’s fair in love, war, and politics. What are you doing tonight?”

His casual, unexpected question ripped her wide open. Hurting, she looked away and acted as if she hadn’t heard him.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” She scrambled, trying to come up with something to distract him. “Do you think any of this will do any good?” She
waved her hand at the other delegates all eating
al fresco
on the grassy slope.

“What do you mean?”

“Meetings. Platform committees. Politics. After the last convention…,” her voice trailed off.

“We do this sort of thing every four years as the Constitution says we must.”

His glib reply grated on her nerves. All she wanted to do was get away from this easy-talking man, away from this sunny slope
overlooking Lafayette Park. So she did just that. With a mumbled excuse to the others around her, she escaped Trent and fled
back to the Willard where she was staying. When she picked up her key, the desk clerk gave her a letter that had been forwarded
to her. It was from Cherise.

She entered the elevator and opened it as she began to rise. After reading the first paragraph, she found herself leaning
against the back wall of the compartment, tears again streaming down her face.

A
fter doing her part on the Democratic Platform meetings, Leigh had been asked to campaign for McGovern in a series of town
hall meetings as an example of the new woman Democrat. On this night, Leigh had come to participate in one in an auditorium
in a suburb of Baltimore. She’d never appeared in a public panel before and now she knew why. She didn’t have butterflies
in her stomach, she had elephants. And they were all doing the cha-cha. She sat at a long institutional table and resisted
the urge to fidget.

At first, she’d put off deciding about whether to participate or not. She’d made no bones about her lack of enthusiasm for
all three presidential candidates—Humphrey versus McGovern, and both of them versus Nixon. But the party still wanted her
to take part in these meetings. So she’d given in and agreed. It was something to do, something that might, at least, help
others decide who to vote for. And maybe, somehow, by taking part she’d begin to feel alive again.

Everyone stood as the national anthem was played by a
young bugler. Then, at one of the platform microphones, Trent Kinnard—well-dressed and groomed as usual—welcomed everyone
to the meeting. She wondered if Trent followed the progress of the Democratic campaign as doggedly as he pursued her. It made
her nervous. Now, after his few opening comments, he invited people to stand and move to speak into the microphone in the
middle aisle.

Immediately, a burly retirement-aged man rose and shouldered his way to the mike. “I want to know what in the heck McGovern
thinks he’s going to do with our military. As far as I’m concerned, when I hear what he said about Viet Nam, I think he’s
nuts and abetting the enemy while Nixon’s trying to get peace in Paris.”

Leigh frowned. After receiving Cherise’s letter in June, she had come to dread the whole topic of Viet Nam. Why had Frank
requested another tour of duty there? Wasn’t putting himself in harm’s way twice enough?

“Is that a question?” Trent asked smoothly. “It sounds more like a speech.”

The man wasn’t put off. “What would McGovern do to end the war with honor?” he shot back, jabbing a forefinger in the air.
“And how would he defend the U.S. with the military cuts he’s said he’d make? I don’t ever want America to be as unprepared
for war as we were in 1941.”

Leigh leaned into her microphone, suddenly unable to remain silent. The topic of Viet Nam stirred her. “We’re all concerned
about the war. One of my dearest friends is a career military man, and he’s in Nam for his third tour of duty. Stateside,
his wife is expecting their second child.” Leigh suppressed a tremor that went through her. “I would say that Mr. McGovern
is merely saying what he thinks, and I don’t find that treasonous.”

“Are you one of those woman-libbers?” the man blustered, looking at her with narrowed eyes.

“What has that got to do with anything?” Trent took over. “I think Miss Sinclair has given you an honest opinion. No one likes
the war in Viet Nam. Why did we get into this war in the first place? Is the American taxpayer supposed to bear the burden
of policing the world against Communism? McGovern says no.”

Others stood up to add to this discussion. Leigh tried to look interested, but she was too shaken to take part. She kept thinking
about her friends. Cherise and Frank already had a little boy, named James. Frank had said three Franks were enough. Cherise
tried to sound brave in her letters, but it was obvious that she feared Frank might never live to see their second child.
Leigh couldn’t rid herself of the feeling that Cherise might be right.

Finally, the meeting with all the stupid questions from the local John Does ended. Delaying his departure, Trent finally managed
to escort Leigh out to her Nova in the new fire-engine chartreuse. So far he’d not scored one point with the most gorgeous
Democrat in the U.S. What was going on behind those beautiful but sad eyes? They told him that she was on the rebound, which
could work to his favor if he could get on her good side. Easy. He was good at that. He’d just have to play this a little
more subtly than he had been.

“Go to a late supper with me?” he offered, trying not to sound as if this meant anything like a date. Women on the rebound
didn’t want to date.

“I’m driving to my grandmother’s house—”
Oh, ho, little Red Riding Hood. “
But surely you have to eat,” he said, trying to sound sympathetic. Heck, at forty, he
was a little young for the role, but he’d even attempt fatherly if that would do the trick.

Leigh looked at him. Sudden tears moistened her big cornflower-blue eyes. She blinked, trying to hide them from him.

“Why are you sad all the time?” Trent asked in the softest and most caring voice he could manage. “Don’t you think it might
help to talk about it?”

In the empty parking lot, Leigh burst into tears. Trent gathered her into his arms, making sure that he kept the embrace comforting,
not sensual. “Let it out. Let it all out. I can take it.” Dear Abby would be proud of him.

“I just lost my fiance,” she said, her tears subsiding. “I’m sorry. It’s just—”

“It’s hard, I know.” What jerk would leave this luscious armful behind? Well, one man’s stupidity could be this man’s luck.
Over the past few weeks, this young woman had lingered in his mind, not just because of her beauty, but because she had
something.
She made him want to be near her for a long time, a very long time. Meeting her had made him finally realize that he needed
someone who’d commit to a longer-term relationship. He was tired of one-night stands and casual affairs. And of women who
were on the prowl just like him. What he wanted was right here in his arms—a beautiful woman who projected a delicious tempting
innocence.

They’d shared a relaxing supper at a homey little cafe. That had been just the right setting for Leigh to begin to open up
to him. He’d felt a flicker of sympathy when she’d revealed that she wasn’t suffering from a broken heart but from her fiance’s
death. That was heavy, but it also would work for him. She didn’t know it, but she was looking to replace what she’d
lost—a wedding night. And he was more than willing to supply—if not the wedding—the night, and much more. He wouldn’t be stingy
with his time or his money. Leigh was luxury class all the way, and that’s how he’d treat her. But first he had to help her
fall from grace and into his waiting arms.

Aware of her naïve idealism, he’d spent the evening convincing her that he was deeply concerned about America and very sympathetic
to her grief. She wasn’t the kind who was impressed by influence, agreeable to his pragmatic enthusiasm for power and money.
He’d keep that to himself. Feeling as if he’d made good progress, Trent walked her to her Nova once more.

“I’m sorry to be such poor company,” she murmured.

Trent put his arm around her in a comforting gesture, again calculatingly devoid of sensuality. “You? Poor company? Never.
You’ve been through hell.”

She sighed with obvious fatigue.

“I don’t like you driving home alone at night,” he said. “Why don’t you stay at a hotel?” He stopped himself from adding—“with
me?”
Patience. Patience.

“Ivy Manor’s not far—just around twenty-five miles.” She unlocked the door of her Nova and then turned back to him. “Thanks.
I enjoyed your company.”

“I’m glad.”
Someday soon you’ll enjoy something much more exciting than just my company.
He lifted her chin with his hand. “You’ll survive this, you know. You’re a strong woman.”

She blushed. “Thanks.”

He gave her a light, fatherly kiss on her cheek. And wondered how soon he’d be able to kiss her deeply with all the passion
she ignited in him. “I’ll see you in three days then.”

She nodded and got in.

“Fasten that seat belt,” he ordered in a mock-severe tone. “And I’ll see you at the next town-hall meeting.”

She smiled and buckled up before starting the car and driving away. He waved until she was out of sight.

An image of her lying in his arms, her golden hair flowing over his skin, floated through his mind, and his breath caught
in his throat. He would be the envy of every man when she was his. And it wouldn’t take long. He just had to lull her into
trusting him, and then he’d overcome the strong scruples he sensed she still possessed—even though the sexual revolution had
changed the social landscape. It was kind of cute that she still hadn’t had much experience with passion. And maybe that would
bind her to him for that “long, long time.” He breathed in deeply. So much to look forward to. She would be his. He’d just
chipped out the first chink in her armor.

L
eigh didn’t know why she’d agreed to attend the McGovern election-night festivities in Baltimore. Victory did not seem to
loom on the Democratic horizon. But she’d come because she’d gotten caught up in the campaign, the town-hall meetings, the
knocking on doors to get the vote out, the writing letters to the editors of various newspapers, challenging the government
to do better.