The President's Daughter (19 page)

Had that been Blythe’s sister?

Dina went into her closet and reached for the half-forgotten wooden box that she kept on the shelf, the box in which she kept odd pieces from her childhood. She sat in the middle of the bed and opened it, searching through the treasured contents for that one item she sought.

The gold ring—a high school ring, Dina had realized as she grew older—the initials
BDP
engraved inside, the name of the school,
“The Shipley School 1964,”
in script across the front. The ring that her fairy godmother had tucked into her hand that last time she visited. The ring that Dina had instinctively kept from Jude for years. When she’d finally asked about it, Jude’s jaw had set squarely and she’d told Dina it had belonged to a cousin of hers. For reasons that Dina couldn’t have explained, she hadn’t believed her mother.

Dina slipped the ring on her finger.

Blythe’s high school ring.

Dina held it up to her face. Where, she wondered, was the Shipley School? Had Blythe been smart? Popular? Athletic? What had she cared about when she was a student there? How had she gone from that place to falling in love with a President and bearing his child?

Mom—
Jude
—would know. Jude knew it all. Had known it all.

Suddenly the room seemed too small to contain Dina’s anger. Her spirit agitated and her heart restless, she wandered outside into the dark fields. Across the rows where the winter’s freezing and warming of the soil had caused the earth to heave, Dina walked, kicking a clump of dirt here and there, her thoughts a jumble. She sat down under a lone willow tree at the edge of the lake that formed the far boundary of her property. All was still, all quiet, a stark contrast to the rage that came and went inside her. She leaned back against the tree and cried, the sobs cracking the silence of the night like crisp claps of thunder that sent several small creatures that rustled in the grasses nearby to seek other shelter.

Perhaps if she cried enough her tears would flush away the anger, wash away the pain.

A flashback to the conversation with her mother and the way Jude had shaken. Fear, Dina now knew. It had been fear that had caused Jude to tremble.

“I’m afraid, too, Mom,” she whispered aloud. “If I’m not your child, if I’m not Dina McDermott, who in the name of God am I?”

The sun had barely broken through the early-morning haze when Waylon nudged Jude and whined to be let out.

“Waylon, go away. It’s too early,” Jude, who’d lain awake all night, muttered, and turned over, still hoping that sleep might come, if only for an hour.

Waylon stood up on his short hind legs, leaned against the side of the bed, and whined a little louder.

“Oh, for pity’s sake.” Jude tossed the thin blanket aside. “All right. Let’s go.”

In bare feet and green-and-white striped pajamas, Jude padded down the steps, following the eager hound, who seemed especially lively for so early in the morning. Jude unlocked the door and pushed it open for Waylon to go out, then stood, frozen on the spot, as the dog bounced upon the figure seated on the top step.

Without turning around, Dina asked in a hoarse voice, “Do you remember when I was eight or nine and wanted to play softball with the girls club and they wouldn’t let a kid sign up unless at least one parent agreed to volunteer for something? When they called and asked you to be assistant coach, you said sure, even though you knew nothing about the game, because you were afraid they wouldn’t let me play if you said no. The next day, you came home from the library with your arms filled with books on baseball, stacked so high you could barely carry them all.”

Dina paused momentarily, then added, “I didn’t have the heart to tell you that softball and baseball weren’t exactly the same thing.”

“I wondered why they moved me from coaching to selling water ice at the snack bar after the second game,” Jude said softly.

“Remember when I was ten and I nominated you for the Father of the Year Award?” Dina could barely get the words out.

“I remember,” Jude whispered, the pride she’d felt in that long-ago moment pinching her heart.
Oh, yes,
baby, I remember. . . .

“I want to go back to who I was yesterday at just this time,” Dina said. “I want to be Dina McDermott again.”

“You are—”

“No, I’m not. I don’t even know what my name really is. Is it Pierce? Is it Hayward?”

“Legally—”

“
Legally
doesn’t mean a damned thing to me right now. If you’re talking about what’s on my birth certificate, that’s just a piece of paper. What does that have to do with who I am?” Dina’s voice was husky from lack of sleep and a fair amount of sobbing.

“Dina, if you want to change your name . . .”

Dina turned around and looked up to meet Jude’s eyes, and Jude recognized the anger, the unbearable hurt, and what was left of her heart shattered.

“Tell me what you want, Dina.”

“I want you to be my mother.”
The words ripped from her throat.

“In my heart, you are—have always been, will always be—my daughter. What I did was so wrong, and nothing I can say will make it less wrong. The lie remains. But that I have loved you with all my heart since the moment of your birth, that is the truth. The purest truth.”

Nodding very slowly, Dina said softly, “I know.”

“Honey, if I could change this, if I could take the hurt away from you, I would.”

“I know that, too.”

“I don’t know what to do for you,” Jude said sadly. “I feel so helpless. I would do anything if I could just go back in time and undo what I’ve done.”

Jude sat down, then somewhat tentatively put her arm around Dina’s shoulders. When Dina did not push her away, Jude rested Dina’s head on her shoulder, as she had done so many times in the past when her daughter was hurting.

“I’ve never felt this kind of anger before. It’s frightening me, it’s so enormous. It’s overshadowing everything else right now. But at the same time, I know that I can’t not love you, Mom. Whatever else is true, I can’t not think of you as my
mother.
”

“Thank you, darling.” Jude stroked Dina’s hair, filled with gratitude for this unexpected gift. It was more than she’d ever dared hope for.

Together they sat, wrapped in the morning. There would be time to talk more later, time for more questions and more answers, for the airing of more anger and the shedding of more tears.

But right now, the bit of warmth they drew from the silence and their mutual pain brought some momentary comfort, some little bit of strength, and that would have to suffice.

A third of a box of tissues later, Dina said, “Last night you said that Blythe’s death was not an accident. How did she die?”

“It was a hit-and-run on a dark street.”

“Like last night?”

“Very much like last night.”

“How do you know it wasn’t an accident?”

“There was evidence to suggest that she was run over not once, but twice.” Jude swallowed hard. “By the same car.”

“Mom, that’s horrible! Did they ever find the person who ran her over?”

“No.”

“You don’t think that the same person . . . ?”

“I don’t know what to think at this point.” Jude shook her head. “Maybe it’s the same person; maybe the person who drove the car that killed Blythe was working with someone else. I don’t know what to think anymore.”

“You don’t think that Simon had anything to do with this, do you?” Dina asked.

“Someone could have followed him. Maybe someone is afraid that the story will get out after all these years.”

“But after all these years, why would it matter?”

“I can think of a number of reasons why it would matter. I imagine Hayward’s family would not want this to be made public. Especially if, as they say, Graham’s son—he’s a congressman from Rhode Island—is thinking about running for the presidency.”

“Do they know about me? The Haywards?”

“Mrs. Hayward may have known about Blythe. I don’t know if the Hayward kids ever knew.”

“How many children did he have?”

“Two. Graham Junior and a daughter. I don’t recall her name at the moment.”

“I guess it wouldn’t help to tell the local police this story.”

“How could I do that without telling them everything? And the truth being what it is, who’d believe me?” Jude picked a spent blossom from a pot of early pansies.

“We have to tell someone, Mom. I don’t know about you, but I didn’t take Conspiracy One-o-one. I don’t know how to tell if I’m being followed and I wouldn’t know what to do if someone jumped me from behind. I think we’re out of our league, especially since we don’t know who or what we’re dealing with.”

“Maybe you’re right.” Jude nodded. “But first we’d have to convince someone that this is all true.”

“Simon Keller already knows it’s true. And by now, he might even have an idea of who might be involved.”

“I don’t know how much I trust him.”

“I trust him, Mom.”

“Dina, for heaven’s sake, the man is a reporter. He’s writing a book—and we don’t know at this point just what he plans to put into that book, do we?”

“If what you’re telling me is true, Simon has known about this for several weeks. I haven’t seen anything on the news. There’s been no tabloid reporter at my front door. Simon didn’t even tell me.”

“I suspect that even some reporters have scruples. And besides, it isn’t the sort of thing one brings up to someone one doesn’t really know. That would be . . . tacky.”

“ ‘Tacky’ doesn’t usually stop reporters from asking questions. I think he was being considerate of me.”

“Because he’s attracted to you,” Jude said flatly.

“I hope so. I sincerely do, ’cause God knows I’m attracted to him. More than I’ve been attracted to anyone in a very long time. But I also think he
likes
me, Mom. Which is also a good thing.” Dina tossed a ball at Waylon, who sniffed at it, then rolled on it. “Besides, I don’t know who else we can turn to.”

“There
is
someone else we should talk to. Would you feel comfortable leaving town for a few days? Could you leave Polly in charge of your business till you get back?”

“Yes, but—”

“Good. Go home and make whatever arrangements you need to make with her. Pack for several days. We’re taking a trip, you and I.” Jude nodded decisively. “A long-overdue trip . . .”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Simon rang the doorbell of the home that Gray Hayward and his wife, Jen, had built three years earlier. It was the last of the family interviews and had been put off twice by the congressman’s schedule. Simon had returned from Henderson the day before yesterday and found the message on his answering machine from Hayward’s aide asking if the appointment could be moved to Thursday. Simon was happy to comply.

“Simon Keller.” Gray Hayward himself opened the door and extended his hand. He was every bit as tall, dark, and handsome as his photos suggested. “Come on in. Have you had lunch? Jen is just making sandwiches. Did you have a good flight up?”

“Yes . . . fine. And no . . . that is, no lunch.” Simon was taken aback by the welcome he received. He’d heard it said that President Hayward had been a man who could put anyone to ease in thirty seconds or less. It appeared that his son had come by the talent naturally.

“Right on back here to the den . . .” Gray led the way through a house that was bright and open and filled with green plants. “We’d hoped that the weather would warm up a bit so that we could show off our new patio, but the wind’s picked up a bit too much. Great view though, wouldn’t you say?”

“Wonderful.” Simon nodded, trying to take it all in. The larger-than-life yet friendly young congressman. The house that looked like a sample for a designer who excelled at integrating heirloom antique furniture and primitive art with the large airy and open room. The breathtaking view of the Narragansett Bay. “The setting is awesome.”

“Exactly what we thought the first time we drove out here. We stood right out there on that outcropping of rocks—come on; let me show you.” Gray Hayward’s enthusiasm was infectious, and within seconds Simon was standing next to his host at the top of a rocky point that overlooked the choppy bay.

“When the realtor brought us up here to look over a few plots of ground, he brought us here first. Didn’t need to see any of the others. I knew this was it.” Gray pointed out into the bay and said, “There’s a small island out there. On a foggy morning, you’d swear the Sirens were singing. It’s just magic.”

“It must be hard for you to leave it behind all the time you spend in Washington,” Simon noted.

“It is hard, but you know, Simon, I love my job. I love the people of Rhode Island. Love that they’ve put such trust in me.”

Had anyone else made such a statement, Simon would have fought an urge to roll his eyes. But there was something about Hayward that was so earnest, something that made you believe that
he
believed every word he said. Another legacy from his father?

“And besides”—Gray continued to look out over the dark water—“I know that this place is always waiting for me. It’s a great family home, but it’ll make a great retirement home, too, when that day comes. Now, let’s run on back to the kitchen and see what Jen has for us. I’m starving, myself. How ’bout you?”

“A sandwich would be great.”

The sandwich
was
great—honey maple ham on pumpernickel with lettuce and tomato—served with a steaming bowl of New England clam chowder.

“I hope you like our local quahog chowder,” Jen Hayward, a pretty strawberry blonde with a trim athletic build, told Simon as she set the tray down on the round wooden table in the den.

“It smells delicious.”

“Well, enjoy it.” The congressman’s wife smiled and stretched out a hand to Simon. “I’m sorry I won’t be able to stay and chat. Our son is in a play at school and I have to be there.”

“I’m sorry, too.” Simon pushed back his chair, preparing to stand.

“No, no, don’t get up. I appreciate the gesture, though.” She leaned over and kissed her husband on the cheek before bustling out of the room.

“You know, we could have rescheduled this interview so that you could have attended your son’s play,” Simon said.

“I went last night.” Gray grinned. “Today is Jen’s turn. We do try to attend as many of the children’s activities as possible—preferably together—but when our schedules conflict we take turns.”

“That’s admirable, to be so involved with your children’s lives.”

Gray shrugged. “Family has always been a priority for us. We figure the kids will be around long after I’ve left Congress.”

“Or the White House.”

“That, too, if it’s in the cards.” Gray’s laugh was rich and easy.

“Your children are . . .”

“Twelve, nine, and seven.”

“Wouldn’t living in the White House be tough on children so young?”

“Living in the White House is tough on everyone.”

“Any thoughts on having grown up there yourself?” Simon slipped his notebook out of his pocket.

“I didn’t, really. I was already in college by the time my father was elected, so I was away from home by then. I think it may have been tougher on Sarah.”

“In what way?”

“Sarah was the baby, and of course, being the only girl, she was the apple of Dad’s eye. Before the election, she’d been accustomed to pretty much having her own way and a lot more of his time. It was hard for her to accept that she couldn’t call all of the shots anymore.”

“She mentioned that she was permitted to continue on at the boarding school she had been attending,” Simon said, “so it seems that she didn’t have to give up all that much.”

“Oh, in reality, she gave up very little.” Gray grinned again. “Sarah wasn’t one to let much get in her way. When she wanted to come home, she came home. When she wanted to stay at school, she stayed at school. She pretty much had everyone wrapped around her fingers, including the Secret Service.”

“You sound envious.”

“I guess there were times back then when I was. The baby of the family always gets special treatment.”

“Were you able to do any traveling with your parents while your father was President?”

“No, no. So many of their trips were during the school year, I couldn’t take the time off.”

“Ah, now from that should I assume that you were a more dedicated student than your sister?”

Graham tilted his head, as if poised to ask a question. When he did not, Simon said, “Your sister mentioned that she’d taken a year off from school—her senior year, I think she said—so that she could accompany your parents on several trips.”

“Oh.” Graham nodded slowly, his eyebrows rising slightly. “Of course. Her senior year. I’d forgotten about that. No, I never had the opportunity to travel with my parents.”

“What are your favorite memories of those days?”

Gray put his sandwich down on the plate and appeared to be deep in thought. “I guess just being so proud of my dad. He was such a great man. A truly great man.”

“And a great President?”

“Others will have to be the judge of that,” Gray said softly. “I can only speak of what he was like as a father.”

“How was he?”

“Loving. Interested. Always concerned, always caring. Never too busy to listen. Oh, at that precise moment when you wanted to talk he might have had someone else on the line, but he’d always find time. I can’t remember a time when he brushed me off or made me feel that my problems were insignificant.”

“It seems that he and your mother were very close.”

“I think they were. I think they loved each other deeply.”

Simon pretended to write longer than he really needed to, not daring to look up lest Gray sense that touch of doubt that had been nagging all day.

“Of course, we never really know what goes on between two people, do we?” Gray flashed that million-watt smile again, and Simon knew he didn’t mean it. Of course, Gray believed that he did in fact know what was between his father and his mother. They loved each other. Were devoted to each other. Who could doubt it?

Gray nodded toward Simon’s notebook as if in a hurry to conclude. “What else do you have there?”

“What was the defining moment of your father’s tenure, for you, personally? The moment when you felt your father’s power?”

“That’s easy. Meeting Elvis. Without a doubt, nothing impressed me more than knowing that Elvis had come to the White House because my father had asked him to. I got to shake the hand of the King. I guess you were hoping for someone a bit more important in the grand scheme of things, but meeting Elvis was the really big moment for me.” Gray laughed.

“Your family called the White House home for eight years. Did you have a sense of being part of history, back then?”

“Yes. Definitely.” Gray’s face sobered. “I felt that sense of greatness about my dad. I know I said it earlier and I know that everyone says it—that Graham Hayward was a great man—but he was. I always knew it. And if you’d ever walked into the Oval Office when he was seated at that desk . . . well, you’d have known it, too. He had such an air about him.”

“Power?” Simon suggested.

“Certainly that. But it went well beyond that. Because you knew that he would never abuse his power, that he’d always use it to do what was right.” Gray Hayward looked Simon straight in the eyes and said, “My father really was as moral as everyone says he was. He always did what was right. Not in a self-righteous way. Just . . .
right.
He always stressed the importance of living up to your responsibilities, of being honest. Of earning your good name and working hard to keep it untarnished.”

Hayward stood and walked to the window. Simon was grateful for the fact that he did not have to look the man in the eye at that particular moment, the late President’s morality clearly being more of an issue to him than it was to his son.

“I was twenty-two the summer General Andrew Fielding was forced to resign. Remember the incident?” Gray smiled. “Of course you’d have been too young to have had a firsthand recollection, but you might have read about it.”

“I did.”

“Then you probably remember that General Fielding was a five-star general who’d earned his reputation in Vietnam. He was an exemplary soldier, from all accounts, and my father’s most trusted military adviser. Unfortunately, in the years following the war he’d been part of a network that made a great deal of money supplying very young girls for the brothels in Thailand.”

“I remember.” Simon nodded.

“When the story surfaced, they wanted my dad to bury it. Wanted him to say that Fielding was retiring because his wife was ill. Let him retire from the public eye for a while before the story leaked out.”

Gray blew out a long breath.

“My dad believed very strongly that the American people must always be able to believe that what their President told them was the truth. They might not always like it, but they always had to know that he would only tell them the truth. And he did. There are some in the military who never forgave him for that.” Gray turned back to face Simon. “Whatever else history will say about my father, it will say that he never lied to the people.”

“A novel approach to government.”

“It’s a legacy I hope to live up to.”

“As President?”

“If it works out that way, yes, I would hope to follow in my father’s footsteps. And
if
I’m lucky enough to follow him to the White House, I hope I can follow his example in the way he conducted himself there. But as a member of Congress I do try to live up to the standard he set.” Gray walked back to the table and stood near his chair, as if debating whether or not he wanted to seat himself again. “Is that what you’re looking for, for your book?”

“You’ve given me some great quotes, and I’m sure I’ll use every one of them. My plan had been to focus the book’s energy on reminiscences of your father as a man as much as a President. I’ve already compiled a number of personal remembrances that I think will make a great portrait of your father.”

“Have you contacted Mrs. Williams at Dad’s library?”

“Yes. She’s been very helpful.” Simon found it hard to meet the man’s direct gaze. All that talk about honesty and never telling lies had made him a little antsy.

The rest of the afternoon was spent jotting down the congressman’s recollections and impressions of his father’s cabinet members, foreign dignitaries, and various crises, both foreign and domestic.

When Jen appeared in the doorway late in the afternoon to advise Gray of an important phone call, Simon took the hint and closed his notebook.

“Congressman, I can’t thank you enough for the time you’ve given me this afternoon.”

“Hey, it’s I who should be thanking you. Philip feels that this book will introduce a whole new generation to my father.”

“I’m doing my best.” Simon picked up his briefcase and moved toward the door.

“As my dad always said, no one can ask more than that.” Hayward followed Simon out into the hallway. “Now, we’ll be looking for an advance copy, you know.”

“Well, truthfully, I’m not sure when that will be available.”

“Oh.” Gray looked slightly disappointed. “I was hoping that the book could be out by the end of December, so that we’d have a shot at keeping the buzz going into the new year. Then just as it starts to die down—”

“Your candidacy will be announced.” Simon paused at the front door.