Stillwatch (2 page)

her like wreckage from a ship. In the past year she had persistentlydreamed of being a small child again in this house. Invariably shewould awaken in an agony of fear, trying to scream, unable to utter asound. But coupled with the fear was a pervading sense of loss. Thetruth is in this house, she thought.

It was here that it had happened. The lurid headlines, gleaned fromnewspaper archives, flashed through her mind. “WISCONSINCONGRESSMAN DEAN ADAMS MURDERS BEAUTIFULSOCIALITE WIFE AND KILLS SELF. THREE-YEAR-OLDDAUGHTER FIGHTS FOR LIFE.”She had read the stories so many times, she knew them by heart.“A sorrowful Senator John F. Kennedy commented, ‘I simply don’tunderstand. Dean was one of my best friends. Nothing about himever suggested pent-up violence.’”What had driven the popular Congressman to murder and suicide?There had been rumors that he and his wife were on the verge ofdivorce. Had Dean Adams snapped when his wife made an irrevocabledecision to leave him? They must have wrestled for the gun. Boththeir fingerprints, smudged and overlapping, were found on it. Theirthree-year-old daughter had been found lying against the fireplace,her skull fractured, her right leg shattered.Veronica and Charles Traymore had told her that she was adopted.Not until she was in high school and wanted to trace her ancestry hadshe been given the whole truth. Shocked, she learned that her motherwas Veronica’s sister. “You were in a coma for a year and not expectedto live,” Veronica told her. “When you finally did regain consciousnessyou were like an infant and had to be taught everything. Mother—your grandmother—actually sent an obituary notice to the newspapers.That’s how determined she was that the scandal wouldn’t follow youall your life. Charles and I were living in England then. We adoptedyou and our friends were told you were from an English family.”Pat recalled how furious Veronica had been when Pat insisted ontaking over the Georgetown house. “Pat, it’s wrong to go back there,”she’d said. “We should have sold that place for you instead of rentingit all these years. You’re making a name for yourself in television—

don’t risk it by raking up the past! You’ll be meeting people whoknew you as a child. Somebody might put two and two together.”Veronica’s thin lips tightened when Pat insisted.“We did everything humanly possible to give you a fresh start. Goahead, if you insist, but don’t say we didn’t warn you.”In the end they had hugged each other, both shaken and upset.“Come on,” Pat pleaded. “My job is digging for the truth. If I hunt forthe good and bad in other people’s lives, how can I ever have anypeace if I don’t do it in my own?”

Now she went into the kitchen and picked up the telephone. Evenas a child she had referred to Veronica and Charles by their first names,and in the past few years had virtually stopped calling them Motherand Dad. But she suspected that that annoyed and hurt them.Veronica answered on the first ring. “Hi, Mother.I’m here safe and sound; the traffic was light all the way.”“Where is
here?
”“At the house in Georgetown.” Veronica had wanted her to stay ata hotel until the furniture arrived. Without giving her a chance toremonstrate, Pat rushed on. “It’s really better this way. I’ll have achance to set up my equipment in the library and get my head togetherfor my interview with Senator Jennings tomorrow.”“You’re not nervous there?”“Not at all.” She could visualize Veronica’s thin, worried face.“Forget about me and get ready for your cruise. Are you all packed?”“Of course. Pat, I don’t like your being alone for Christmas.”“I’ll be too busy getting this program together even to think aboutit. Anyway, we had a wonderful early Christmas together. Look, I’dbetter unload the car. Love to both of you. Pretend you’re on a secondhoneymoon and let Charles make mad love to you.”“
Pat!
” Disapproval and amusement mingled in her voice. But shemanaged one more piece of advice before hanging up. “Keep thedouble locks on!”Buttoning her jacket, Pat ventured out into the chilly evening, andfor the next ten minutes she tugged and hauled the luggage and cartons.The box of linens and blankets was heavy and ungainly; she had torest every few steps on the way to the second floor. Whenever she

tried to carry anything heavy her right leg felt as though it might giveway. The carton with dishes and pans and groceries had to be hoistedup to the kitchen counter. I should have trusted the movers to arrivetomorrow on time, she thought—but she had learned to be skepticalof “firm” delivery dates. She had just finished hanging up her clothesand making coffee when the phone rang.The sound seemed to explode in the quiet of the house. Pat jumpedand winced as a few drops of coffee touched her hand. Quickly sheput the cup on the counter and reached for the phone. “Pat Traymore.”“Hello, Pat.”She clutched the receiver, willing her voice to sound only friendly.“Hello, Sam.”Samuel Kingsley, Congressman from the 26th District ofPennsylvania, the man she loved with all her heart—the
other
reasonshe had decided to come to Washington.

Forty minutes later Pat was struggling with the clasp of her necklacewhen the peal of the door chimes announced Sam’s arrival. She hadchanged to a hunter green wool dress with satin braiding. Sam hadonce told her that green brought out the red in her hair.The doorbell rang again. Her fingers were trembling too much tofasten the catch. Grabbing her purse, she dropped the necklace intoit. As she hurried down the stairs she tried to force herself to be calm.She reminded herself that during the eight months since Sam’s wife,Janice, had died Sam hadn’t called once.On the last step she realized that she was again favoring her rightleg. It was Sam’s insistence that she consult a specialist about thelimp that had finally forced her to tell him the truth about the injury.She hesitated momentarily in the foyer, then slowly opened the door.Sam nearly filled the doorway. The outside light caught the silverstrands in his dark brown hair. Under unruly brows, his hazel eyeslooked wary and quizzical. There were unfamiliar lines around them.But the smile when he looked at her was the same, warm and all-embracing.They stood awkwardly, each waiting for the other to make thefirst move, to set the tone for the reunion. Sam was carrying a broom.Solemnly he handed it to her. “The Amish people are in my district.One of their customs is to carry a new broom and salt into a newhome.” He reached into his pocket for a salt cellar. “Courtesy of theHouse dining room.” Stepping inside, he put his hands on hershoulders and leaned down to kiss her cheek. “Welcome to our town,Pat. It’s good to have you here.”So this is the greeting, Pat thought. Old friends getting together.Washington is too small a town to try to duck someone from the past,

so meet her head on and establish the rules. Not on your life, shethought. It’s a whole new ball game, Sam, and this time I plan to win.She kissed him, deliberately, leaving her lips against his just longenough to sense the intensity gathering in him, then stepped backand smiled easily.“How did you know I was here?” she asked. “Have you got theplace bugged?”“Not quite. Abigail told me you were going to be in her officetomorrow. I called Potomac Cable for your phone number.”“I see.” There was something intimate in the way Sam soundedwhen he mentioned Senator Jennings. Pat felt her heart give a queertwist and looked down, not wanting Sam to see the expression on herface. She made a business of fishing in her purse for her necklace.“This thing has a clasp that Houdini couldn’t figure out. Will you?”She handed it to him.He slipped it around her neck and she felt the warmth of his fingersas he fastened it. For a moment his fingers lingered against her skin.Then he said, “Okay, that should stay put. Do I get the Cook’sTour of the house?”“There’s nothing to see yet. The moving van delivers tomorrow.This place will have a whole new look in a few days. Besides, I’mstarving.”“As I remember, you always were.” Now Sam’s eyes betrayedgenuine amusement. “How a little thing like you can put away hot-fudge sundaes and buttered biscuits and still not put on an ounce . . .”Very smooth, Sam, Pat thought as she reached into the closet forher coat. You’ve managed to ticket me as a little thing with a bigappetite. “Where are we going?” she asked.“I made a reservation at Maison Blanche. It’s always good.”She handed him her jacket. “Do they have a children’s menu?”she asked sweetly.“
What?
Oh, I see. Sorry —I thought I was paying you acompliment.”Sam had parked in the driveway behind her car.They walked down the path, his hand lightly under her arm. “Pat,are you favoring your right leg again?” There was concern in his tone.

“Just a touch. I’m stiff from the drive.”“Stop me if I’m wrong. But isn’t this the house you own?”She had told him about her parents the one night they had spenttogether. Now she nodded distractedly. She had often relived thatnight in the Ebb Tide Motel on Cape Cod. All she needed was thescent of the ocean, or the sight of two people in a restaurant, theirfingers linked across the table, smiling the secret smile of lovers.And that one night had ended their relationship. In the morning, quietand sad at breakfast, on their way to separate planes, they had talkedit out and agreed they had no right to each other. Sam’s wife, alreadyconfined to a wheelchair with multiple sclerosis, didn’t deserve theadded pain of sensing that her husband was involved with anotherwoman. “And she’d know,” Sam had said.Pat forced herself back to the present and tried to change thesubject. “Isn’t this a great street? It reminds me of a painting on aChristmas card.”“Almost any street in Georgetown looks like a Christmas card atthis time of year,” Sam rejoined. “It’s a lousy idea for you to try todredge up the past, Pat. Let go of it.”They were at the car. He opened the door and she slipped in. Shewaited until he was in the driver ’s seat and pulling away before shesaid, “I can’t. There’s something that keeps nagging me, Sam. I’mnot going to have any peace until I know what it is.”Sam slowed for the stop sign at the end of the block. “Pat, don’tyou know what you’re trying to do? You want to rewrite history,remember that night and decide it was all a terrible accident, thatyour father didn’t mean to hurt you or kill your mother. You’re justmaking it harder for yourself.”She glanced over and studied his profile. His features, a shade toostrong, a hairbreadth too irregular for classic good looks, wereimmensely endearing. She had to conquer the impulse to slide overand feel the fine wool of his overcoat against her cheek.“Sam, have you ever been seasick?” she asked.“Once or twice. I’m usually a pretty good sailor.”“So am I. But I remember coming back on the
QE 2
with Veronicaand Charles one summer. We hit a storm and for some reason I lostmy sea legs. I don’t ever remember being so miserable. I kept wishing

I could be sick and have done with it. And you see, that’s the way it’sgetting to be for me now. Things keep coming back to me.”He turned the car onto Pennsylvania Avenue. “What things?”“Sounds . . . impressions . . . sometimes so vague; other times,especially when I’m just waking up, remarkably clear—and yet theyfade before I can get hold of them. I actually tried hypnosis last year,but it didn’t work. Then I read that some adults can remember accuratelythings that happened when they were as young as two. One study saidthe best way to recapture the memory is to reproduce the environment.Fortunately or unfortunately, that’s something I can do.”“I still think it’s a lousy idea.”Pat gazed out the car window. She had studied street maps to geta sense of the city and now tried to test herself on the accuracy of herimpressions. But the car was moving too swiftly, and it was too darkto be sure of anything. They didn’t speak.The maître d’ at Maison Blanche greeted Sam warmly and escortedthem to a banquette“The usual?” Sam asked after they were seated.Pat nodded, acutely aware of Sam’s nearness. Was this his favoritetable? How many other women had he brought here?“Two Chivas Regals on the rocks with a splash of soda and a twistof lemon, please,” Sam requested. He waited until the maître d’ wasout of earshot, then said, “All right—tell me about the last few years.Don’t leave anything out.”“That’s a tall order. Give me a minute to think.” She would eliminatethose first few months after they had agreed not to see each other,when she’d gotten through the day in a fog of sheer, hopeless misery.She could and did talk about her job, about getting an Emmy nominationfor her program on the newly elected woman mayor of Boston, abouther growing obsession to do a program about Senator Jennings.“Why Abigail?” Sam asked.“Because I think it’s high time a woman was nominated forPresident. In two years there’ll be a national election and AbigailJennings should lead the ticket. Just look at her record: ten years inthe House; in her third term in the Senate; member of the Foreign

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