Sleeping Beauty (70 page)

“They sure do,” Leo said. He looked at Gail. “It could almost be the story of the Chathams.”

Gail shook her head quickly. “Not really.”

Josh's eyebrows went up. “How?”

“Well, it's not really that close,” Leo said. “Ethan, Gail's grandfather, kicked Vince out of the family a long time ago. You wouldn't have known that; I doubt that Dora knows it, she was a baby when it happened, and she's the only one who might have told you. No one's talked about it, as far as I know, since it happened. Anyway, Vince was out, and he sold his shares in the family company, so he was out there, too. He didn't plot a coup or anything like that, but he left and he never really came back. Ethan never spoke to him again.”

“Why did he kick him out?” Josh asked. In the silence, he looked from Leo to Gail. “Come on; it's the obvious question. And you said it was a long time ago.”

“But it's not our story,” Gail said. “Not ours to tell.”

Frowning, Josh gazed past them, at the distant peaks. The scientist in him always looked for connections; that was his life work. Now he made the connection between three facts: something had so wounded Anne that it was as if part of her was frozen, or asleep, and had been that way for a long time. Vince had been kicked out by her grandfather a long time ago. Anne had left home a long time ago, and had only
recently come back. He felt cold inside, as if, like Anne, he were frozen. My God, he thought. My God, it can't be. He looked at Gail and Leo. “Did it have anything to do with Anne?” he asked.

Gail sighed. “We just can't talk about it, Josh; there's nothing we can tell you. Anyway, we were talking about people who lived thousands of years ago; they don't have anything to do with us. All we care about is that you found the tomb; we're excited and happy for you.” She carried their mugs to the sink. “We're picking up Ned and Robin at the hospital; do you want us to drive you home so you don't have to run that gauntlet of reporters? They probably came back the minute the road was plowed.”

Josh shook his head. “I like the walk, and I can handle the gauntlet; I just talk about Tenkaure. It's the best publicity in the world for what we're doing there.”

“They don't want Tenkaure; they want to know about you,” Leo said.

“They'll take what they can get; I don't talk about me.” He helped Gail finish clearing the table. “Thanks for breakfast; I'll do the same for you when my house is finished. Right now I'm camping out in one room and half a kitchen. Give my love to your kids; tell them I'll take them to the Chocolate Factory as soon as you say they can go.”

When he left, he took long strides on his snowshoes, breathing deeply in the clear air, warm in the sunlight, cold in the shade. He moved steadily through the trees and across the open meadows, staying away from the cars parked on the road. He would meet them outside his house and give as long an interview on Egypt as they wanted. And afterward, when he was settled in the finished living room where he lived and slept, he would call Anne. Not to ask her questions; that would come when they were together. He would call as her friend, and of course as her client. And later, when she returned to Tamarack, or he was in Los Angeles, he would ask her about the years of her growing up. It was time they talked about all of that.

*   *   *

Most of the guests had left the ballroom of the Brown Palace Hotel in Denver; only a few friends of the organizers remained, sitting close to Vince like camp followers huddled around a fire for warmth and reflected light. “I figure a couple million, and that's net,” said Ray Beloit. “People love a winner, Vince; they'll put money on you way past the time you'll need it.”

“Ain't no such thing,” said Sid Folker. “In politics or out, ain't no such thing as too much money or a time you don't need as much as you can get.”

“Senator,” said a young woman behind Vince, “could you give me a few minutes? I'm with the
Rocky Mountain News.”

Vince turned, already smiling. His smile broadened when he saw her: tall and slim, with short blond hair swinging about her heart-shaped face, and green eyes meeting his with almost worshipful intensity. “You missed the press conference?” he asked.

“Oh, no, I was there; I'd never miss hearing you. But I thought, if we could talk a little bit, if you could be a little more personal . . .”

“Ah, you're one of those who truly cares about her calling. How could I resist?” Vince took her arm and led her to one of the round dinner tables that had been cleared by the waiters. “First of all, I'd like to know your name.”

She flushed. “I'm sorry. Sara Benedict.”

“Sara. A lovely name. Well, Sara, what would you like to know?”

“I'm interested in your family. I've been reading about them, of course; the bad luck they've been having in Tamarack—such an awful story, the gondola crash, and that somebody deliberately caused it!”

“A stranger,” Vince said. “An intruder trying to wreck the family by wrecking the gondola. He'll be taken care of.”

“Yes, but that's only one of their problems. They've had others, and they're in trouble in Chicago, too. And the thing is, Senator, I can't help but contrast that with your great success.”

Vince waited for the question. Sara waited, too, as if she had asked one. “Well, yes,” Vince said at last, “you could say there's a gap between us, but if you leave business out of it, if you just talk about them as people who are good and decent and honorable, you'd have to say my family is ahead of everybody else, me included, I suppose.”

Sara scribbled briefly in the notebook folded back on her knees. “That's very generous of you, Senator, but I wasn't thinking about whether they're nice or not—I'm sure they are—I was just wondering how it is that there's a whole family who can't seem to make it, and you stand so tall above them, even running for president—”

“No, no, Sara, my dear Sara, you mustn't say that, and you certainly must not write it, because it isn't true.”

“Everybody says you're going to run for president.”

“Well, whoever ‘everybody' is, they can say what they like, but in this case they're wrong. What I am running for is a second term to the Senate of the United States, and I expect to be elected this November, and I expect to serve a full term and do the best I can for the people of Colorado.” He smiled as if he were a little embarrassed. “That sounds like a campaign speech, but it's from the heart, Sara. I want to serve this state; these people have confidence in me. Do you know how it makes me feel when they go into voting booths by the thousands and
choose me?
It makes me feel loved and trusted, admired, needed, relied upon. Of course everybody wants that; maybe politicians want it more than anyone else and that's why we go into government—I don't know; I'm not a psychologist—but I know that it makes me feel like a king, and I wouldn't let those people down for all the power and glory in the world.”

Sara's eyes were shining. With a little start, she looked down and wrote for a furious minute. “But you succeed,” she said. “Your family fails.”

“Oh, no, my dear,” Vince said very gently. “They love each other, they help each other, they love me and help me. They're rich and triumphant in affection.”

“But in business they fail.”

“Well, yes, but we can't use that as the only measure of a life.”

“Yes, Senator, but it's all part of the same thing, isn't it? What I'm really interested in is the
human
element. How could you all come from the same roots—Ethan Chatham was one of the most brilliant, powerful men in the country—how could you all come from him and only one of you be like him?”

Vince nodded thoughtfully. “There is usually one true heir in a family, Sara. But that has nothing to do with how good that family is. My family's troubles are my troubles. They're as fine a family as a man could want, and I lie awake nights trying to think of how I can help them. There's only so much I can do, of course; they're proud and stubborn—and I'm not criticizing them for that; I respect them for it—and so little of my time is my own; but I do care, deeply, and I'll always do as much as I can. We'll pull them out of these troubles—these sloughs of despond—”

“These what?” asked Sara, writing.

“S-l-o-u-g-h-s. It's from
Pilgrim's Progress.
You know, I keep that book by my bed and read it over and over; it's like a map of our own time.”

Sara nodded. “So how will you be helping your family?”

“I don't know yet. I'll know better when we talk everything over, probably before I return to Washington at the end of the month. Shall I call you when I have something to report on that?”

Sara looked up quickly from her notebook. “Would you?”

“It would be a pleasure. I like talking to you, Sara.” He glanced behind him at the others, looking his way, ready to leave. “Do you have enough, or are there other things you'd like to ask me?”

“Oh, millions, but this is wonderful, Senator. You've been so generous. And if you're going to call me sometime—”

“I'll call you often. Why shouldn't you have a little edge on the others?
They
didn't go after a personal interview; you did.” Vince put a warm hand on her shoulder and felt her body lean slightly toward him. “I've enjoyed this very much;
more than any other interview I can remember. You'll be hearing from me.” He turned to go.

“Oh, Senator!” Sara was fumbling in her purse. “My card.” She held it out to him. “You'll need it. And wait”—she wrote on the back—“my home number, too. You can call anytime.”

“I'm sure you'll be out on dates at night; you're too lovely to stay home alone,” said Vince with a smile. “I'll call you at work; I'll be sure to find you there.”

He slipped her card in his jacket pocket as he returned to the group. But even as he talked to them, she lingered in his memory. There was a freshness to Sara, almost as if she were still unformed. She was a woman, of course, and a professional at that, with a major Western newspaper, but there was that look in her eyes, of wonder and undisguised response, that one saw only in a woman who had not yet been with an experienced man. A delightful child, Vince thought that night as he was getting ready for bed, so young and pliable; and he added her card to a small packet he kept in his wallet. She could be a pleasant diversion in the busy months ahead.

And she could be more than that. One never knew when a friendly reporter could mean the difference between smooth sailing and slogging. Through the slough of despond, he thought, amused. Good touch; he'd give it to the speech writers tomorrow. And tell them to read
Pilgrim's Progress
so they could remind him what was in it—he'd last looked at it in high school, nearly forty-five years ago—and whether it really could work as a map for our times. He hoped it could; it was a memorable phrase and it had just jumped out, as if his mind were always working, always planning, never asleep.

On a roll, he thought happily, and went to join his wife in bed.

*   *   *

Josh returned to Los Angeles a week after his arrest and called Anne from his office at the university. “I want to take you to dinner,” he said. “I've missed you. I've reserved a table at L'Ermitage, for eight o'clock. Is that all right?”

“Yes,” Anne said, and he heard the smile in her voice. He thought about that all afternoon; she was smiling. And when he pulled up in front of her building, she was waiting for him. She wore a short black silk dress with a silk jacket of black and white stripes, and as always when he saw her after an absence, she took his breath away with her beauty. And she was smiling. “Hello,” she said, holding out her hand, and their fingers met in a brief clasp. She sat beside him in the car. “Were you glad to get out of Tamarack?”

He smiled. “I gather Gail told you about the reporters.”

“She said they were a nuisance for everyone and a burden for you. Why are they still hanging around?”

“I guess they like Tamarack,” he said lightly. “Maybe they like skiing.”

Anne was silent. In a few minutes Josh pulled up at the restaurant, and the valet opened the door on Anne's side of the car. “Okay, you're not worried,” she said as they walked inside. “It's just a minor disturbance in your schedule. Do you expect me to believe that?”

“No,” he said. Their table was in a quiet corner near the fireplace and they sat together along one side. “It's more than a minor disturbance; I guess it could be very serious. I suppose the reporters are hanging around because they think something new will break any minute. There's no sign of it; I haven't heard a word from Tyler or anyone else. I assume he doesn't think he has enough against me; he's still talking to people. He's talked to both gondola attendants, and Keith Jax, about my tour of the gondola. They all heard the questions I was asking. The scientific method,” he added wryly. “Leave no stone unturned or question unasked. I even asked what could fail on it. I don't remember that we talked about the J-grip, but Keith told Tyler we did. Then Tyler questioned the workmen at my house, but I gather they didn't have anything to tell him. And he asked for the name of my Egyptian investors, and I gave them to him, but I don't think he's called them yet.”

Anne shook her head. “How depressing to think of Tyler scraping the bottoms of all those barrels, looking for dregs.”

“Well, Tamarack has its share of depressing days. Anne,
it's wonderful being able to talk to you; I haven't wanted to bother Leo and Gail; they have enough—”

The wine steward came to their table. Absorbed, Josh gave him only a brief glance. “Bring us your favorite burgundy.”