The Race (18 page)

This snatch of conversation, like their others, was stolen between tight schedules complicated by different time zones: while Corey juggled his duties as senator with crisscrossing key primary states, Lexie was finishing a movie on the West Coast—a commercial project in which, to her amusement, she played a Secret Service agent who was the president's clandestine lover. "Not the First Lady," she pointed out dryly. "Even this piece of eyewash aspires to a little realism."

It was best, Corey decided, to take a pass on parsing
that
one. "Sounds right to me," he answered. "It's hard to imagine you in church-lady clothes and sensible shoes, gazing at your husband with mindless adoration."

Lexie let it slide.

That became the pattern of their conversations, ranging from the everyday and amusing—the stifling vanity of Lexie's costar; the woman in Michigan who told Corey that a male's biblical duty was to take the garbage out—to the more serious, as when Corey recounted his latest awkward phone call to the daughter he barely knew.

"I'm sorry," Lexie said, and then asked, "Did you ever think about trying fatherhood again?"

Corey hung up his suit coat in the closet of another motel. "In the abstract, yes. But there hasn't been anyone I'd try
with
. And who's to say, given my past performance and the world I live in, that I'd do any better?"

"You wouldn't, necessarily. You don't have kids just to have them, or just because your partner wants them—any more than you could fairly tell a woman who wanted children
not
to have them."

She had clearly considered this, Corey thought. "Did
you
ever want kids?"

"I always have. But eventually I realized that Ron wanted to be the only child of our marriage. He couldn't stand the competition."

Corey caught the sadness in her tone. "I guess he wasn't honest about that, either."

"Maybe I just didn't want to hear him. But no, Ron wasn't terribly honest about a lot of things. Sometimes honesty means conflict. He found that inconvenient."

This exchange lodged in Corey's mind. So the night she asked if he had resolved to run for president, he weighed his answer carefully. "Some of the indicators say that I should. The crowds are getting bigger, and the media buzz is better than I expected—for this week, at least, I'm the 'candidate of candor.' But the odds are still long, and campaigning breeds the danger of self-delusion: there's always someone to tell you you're the one, and you all too easily stop seeing the reasons you might not be. Being compared to Winston Churchill tests one's sense of balance."

Lexie laughed. "If it does," she answered, "it's all your fault. Character is fate."

Gazing out the window of his limousine, Corey found himself smiling at the darkened streets of Detroit. Her next question caught him up short. "So," she asked, "what exactly are the two of us doing?"

"Talking on the phone?"

"And I enjoy this, Corey—I even find myself scheduling things around it. But I've started asking myself where this is going."

"Does there have to be an answer?"

"I already know the answer if you choose to run. And I think you should run, now or later, if only so you don't spend your life calling yourself a coward. So why am I hanging on the phone? This isn't a relationship, really—it's not even phone sex."

"No, it isn't," Corey said. "We've already done much better."

"Oh," she said quietly, "I've thought about that, too. But that's dumb, really. It's my own fault, Corey, but you're taking up more space in my life than makes sense for me. I even wonder about who might be intercepting our cell-phone calls, and then hate myself for worrying that even talking with you will screw up your career. It's time for this girl to get a grip."

Silent, Corey stared out at the darkness.

"Corey?"

"I'm still here. So what are you doing once you've wrapped this film?"

"Going away. I've taken a place in Cabo San Lucas for the first week of November."

It sounded like a sudden decision. "Is that a strategic withdrawal?" he asked. "Or would you like some company?"

Lexie hesitated. "What would our reason be, Corey—yours
and
mine?"

"To spend more time together. Then maybe we can figure out the reason."

For a moment, all Corey heard was static. When Lexie spoke, her voice sounded tinnier than before. "Let me think about it."

For the next two days, Corey could not reach her. Then, driving to the airport for a flight to South Carolina, he picked up her message. "Here are the dates," she began. "If you've really thought about the fallout and still want to come, let me know."

Corey hit the button for her number.

LEXIE HAD TAKEN a villa at Pedregal, nestled in the hills above the harbor.

When she answered his knock, she was wearing a bikini. Corey stared at her. "Jesus," he said. "The last time it was dark."

Her expression was both embarrassed and amused. "I wasn't sure when you'd get here—I was napping on the porch. Collect yourself, and I'll show you the inside."

The top floor was open, with a porch that provided both sun and shade. When she led him there, Corey saw that it overlooked the villas below and, farther out, a palm-sheltered harbor, its color a vivid blue. As he gazed down at the rear garden, two graceful birds performed a pas de deux above the swimming pool.

"Beautiful," he said.

"And quiet. We can eat dinners in—they have a staff for that." She hesitated. "I assume no one knows you're here."

Corey still gazed at the pool. "I left under protest—Blake's and Jack's. All they know is that I'm not in New Hampshire, where I should be, and that I'll be out of touch for a few days."

By unspoken consent, they moved on to other subjects.

That evening, a shy woman who spoke no English prepared fresh fish for them and left. They sat on the porch, unhurried, watching a cruise ship ease toward the harbor.

"What I've concluded," Corey ventured, "is that you and I are a lot alike."

She eyed him with a skeptical smile. "You think so?"

"At least our challenges are alike. For one thing, it's hard for us to find peers, and other people project onto us the things they need us to be. Not that we don't ask for that. But that leaves it up to us to remember the laws of gravity."

"That's not hard for me, Corey. I just have to remember far enough back." Sipping her mineral water, she watched the progress of the ocean liner. "People can be funny, though. One night, after I'd finished performing in a play, Ron picked me up in this old beat-up Honda Civic I was too sentimental to unload. There were autograph seekers outside; a woman who saw me getting in the car was totally horrified. 'Why are you getting in that car? You can't get in
that
car.'

"It was like I'd ruined her dream of being me. Funny thing is, I actually felt bad for her."

"Do you still have the Honda?"

"Of course," she said dryly. "During the divorce negotiations, Ron swapped it for the beach house in Malibu. I hear his girlfriend liked it there."

Carey laughed. "I'm feeling a little like Ron," he conceded, looking around them. "I couldn't afford all this."

"So pay the cook, if it bothers you. Whatever else you are, Corey, you're not like Ron."

Corey's smile faded. "Janice might disagree," he said at length. "Whatever the case, maybe it's time to talk about my marriage. And how and why it ended."

AFTER WINNING ELECTION to the Senate, still grieving for Clay, Senator-elect Corey Grace had immersed himself in the present, building his staff, meeting more of his new colleagues, and searching for a home in Washington that Janice and Kara would like. But when he showed Janice the real-estate listings, she showed so little interest that he asked what was happening to them.

Glancing toward the small yard where Kara was playing, she led Corey to their bedroom, closing the door behind her. Sitting beside him on the bed, she stared straight ahead, a portrait of silent anguish.

"I can't go with you," she said.

"Why not?" Corey asked. "This is a new start for us."

She turned to him, her eyes filled with a pity so devoid of affection that it cut him to the core. "Because I'm in love, Corey."

There was no doubt she did not mean him. "Who is he?" Corey managed to ask.

"He's Australian—right now, names don't matter. I met him two years ago, while you were in the Gulf." Briefly, she looked away. "When you disappeared, and I thought you were dead, it all had this terrible simplicity. Then you were alive again, so badly damaged, so filled with remorse, that I thought I should give us a second chance. And I thought that if you were leaving the air force we
had
a chance."

"And this guy?"

"Was patient. I told him I couldn't leave you then, and not to think I was coming back." She shook her head in sorrow. "I tried, Corey—honestly I did, I tried as best I could. But then there was politics.

"I even tried that. But I hate the life—just like with the air force, you were gone again. What kind of life is that?" She folded her hands. "He has room in his life for Kara. He even wants more children."

Corey felt the bile in his throat. "I have to hand it to you, Janice. At least you didn't turn to drink."

His wife blanched. "No," she said in a brittle voice. "I'm not my mother. And you're not my father—I know that you had other women, perhaps a number of them. Not that it matters now."

The finality in her tone—as fatal, it seemed, as Corey's own failings—transformed his anger into an aching sadness. "Where would you live?"

"Sydney."

"And Kara?"

Janice inhaled. "I know you can make this hard for me—for us. Please don't. Please, give me the life I need—"

"It's not just about you."

"I know," she acknowledged softly. "But Kara can see you summers."

"_Their_ summer, Janice, is
our
winter." When Janice looked down, he said harshly, "Let's not mince words. You're asking me to write off my eight-year-old daughter."

"I'll try to help, I promise." Eyes shiny with tears, she touched his face. "You never had room for us, Corey. Who's been Kara's parent? Who
would
be, even if I lived in Washington? Kara deserves a chance to be more whole than either of us. I think this man and I can give her that. That's something to try for, isn't it?"

Corey could find no answer.

In early December, the day before she left for Australia, he said good-bye to his daughter. Kara hugged him stiffly. Then she ducked into her mother's car; excited about her new adventure, the little girl did not look back.

THE REST OF THE DAY PASSED GENTLY, LEXIE ABSORBING WHAT HE HAD told her.

That night she lay next to him. When he reached for her in the quiet darkness, she turned her face to him. Her skin felt warm.

Their lovemaking was sweet and intense. Only later, awakening, did Corey realize she was gone.

Rising, he pulled on shorts.

She was standing at the railing of their porch, gazing intently at the moonlit bay. She did not see him; instinct told him not to startle her. He returned to bed alone.

When he awakened at first sunlight, Lexie had returned.

It was warm at dawn. By nine in the morning, Corey discovered, the sun had risen high enough for the porch to be a welcome source of shade. He found that he liked to sit at the table, drink a cup of strong espresso, and reflect.

On the second morning, a thin, low fog sat over the harbor, filtering the sunlight and turning a massive luxury liner into a shadowy shape that could have been an island, until, as it moved slowly toward the harbor, its features became clear.

"It's like a mystery ship," Lexie observed, hands resting on his shoulders. "So have you mapped out your day?"

"Relaxing has always been hard for me." He turned to her. "An hour ago, I realized I didn't know what time it was. In the military, I always knew: everything was hyperorganized, with the days sliced into segments and tasks. Same thing in this job—one appointment after another. Your soul never catches up to your body."

"No choice now," Lexie answered. "You're marooned. No one knows where you are, so there's no one to save you from yourself."

Corey smiled. "No one except you."

Beyond the mists, Corey noted, the water had begun to sparkle, fireflies of light on an ocean still tinted gray. "Maybe," he said finally, "I'll watch the boat."

Lexie did stretches and sit-ups, then ran for several miles down and up the stone road that wound from their villa to the main street toward town. When she returned, Corey was lying on a raft with his eyes closed, enjoying the cool water of the pool.

"Your boat's still there," she told him. "Why aren't you watching it?"

"I got to thinking, and then I figured out what's wrong with my life. Or maybe any politician's life."

"What's that?"

"You strip-mine your own resources—all your energy, intelligence, creativity. Worst of all, there's never enough time to reflect. Or maybe you're just better at that than I am."

"Maybe so."

That afternoon, in the light and shadow of the bedroom, Corey and Lexie made love again. They dozed for a while. When they awakened, the cruise ship was gone.

"Change," Corey noted philosophically. "Sometimes it's hard to live with."

Lexie smiled. "Hungry?" she asked.

FOR THE MOST part, Corey discovered, the private world they created, in which he felt suspended between past and future, was sufficient.

Sometimes he thought about politics; at others, to his surprise, he thought of little else but Lexie. She had begun to fill his senses.

Yet they were both independent—parting, coming together again, talking, reading novels when they wished to. This shared routine, as sensual in its own way as their lovemaking, was something that, for the most part, he savored—with each day, he came to realize, he felt less solitary. But at other times he was disoriented, as if their time here was a shadowy prelude to the all-consuming life, should he choose it, of a candidate for president. He wondered if she sensed this.