The Kiss (43 page)

She dialed Washington information and asked for the number of his office, and was instantly rewarded. She wasn't totally sure what to do next, but when a voice answered, sounding busy, she asked for Mr. Robinson's assistant, and a male voice came on the phone. She explained that Mr. Robinson had encouraged her to call for her committee on literacy in children in the Deep South, and she could hear the assistant pay attention to her. Isabelle knew that literacy all over America was of great importance to him, and he urged all his candidates to espouse it as a valuable cause.

“Of course,” the assistant said, validating Isabelle's idea.

“We were hoping that he and his wife would attend our event in December. We'd like his wife to be our honorary chair.” There was a brief pause while the assistant
caught his breath and Isabelle regrouped, praying that she was right.

“I'm sure Mr. Robinson would like to. I'll check his calendar when you give me the date. But I'm afraid that… er … Mrs. Robinson won't be able to chair the event. Or actually, she might, but… well, they're divorced. In fact,” he sounded slightly embarrassed, “she's getting remarried next month. I'm sure she'd be very interested if you'd actually prefer to ask them. I can give you her number if you'd like to call her. Otherwise, I think Mr. Robinson would be interested in chairing your event, if you'll send me some material on it, and give me the date.”

“Absolutely. I'll get it out to you today.” Isabelle's hand was shaking as she held the phone and closed her eyes. He had lied to her about both things. He and Cynthia were not together, and he could not walk, and she felt certain now of what he had done. He had freed her, for her sake, out of some crazy lunatic idea he had that he owed that to her, because he loved her. Or maybe he didn't love her anymore … but two things were sure, he was no longer married to Cynthia, and he was still in a wheelchair.

“Thank you so much,” she breathed into the phone to his assistant.

“And what was that date again?”

“December twelfth.”

“I'll calendar that for you and let him know.”

“Thank you.”

“And your name? I'm sorry … I didn't catch it….”
“No problem. Sally Jones.”

“Thank you, Miss Jones. Thank you for your call.”

She sat in her bed for a long time afterward, pondering what to do next. She just sat there, thinking about him, and ever more certain of what he had done and why. She felt as though everything had changed in the blink of an eye. But this time, instead of wanting to die as she had for the last five months, she felt alive again.

And at midnight, after thinking about it for hours, she knew what she had to do. She picked up the phone and called the airline, and made a reservation for the following afternoon. His elections were only four days away, and the timing was probably awful, but she couldn't wait. She booked a seat on the two o'clock flight the next day. And then she called Sophie and told her she was going to Washington for a few days.

“Why?” Sophie sounded surprised, but she was pleased. Her mother had been so lifeless, so sad, and so distraught for months, and especially after Teddy died, that it was a relief to know she was willing to go anywhere.

“I'm going to see an old friend,” Isabelle explained.

“Anyone I know?” Sophie asked, trying to figure it out. Her mother was acting a little crazy, and sounding strange. She sounded excited and happy and scared.

“Bill Robinson. We were in the accident together,” Isabelle said gently, and Sophie smiled at her end.

“I know, Mom. He was nice to me in London when I visited you in the hospital. He has two daughters and a nice wife.”

“That's about right.” Minus the wife.

“He liked you a lot,” Sophie said innocently, and Isabelle smiled.

“I like him too. I'll call and let you know where I am, and when I'm coming home. Okay? Take good care of yourself, sweetheart. I'll be back soon.”

“Don't rush back. I'm not coming home till Christmas. Have a good time.”

“Thank you,” Isabelle said, and hung up.

She couldn't sleep that night, and left for the airport the next morning at eleven o'clock. She had to be there at noon. And she could hardly contain herself on the flight. She had no idea how to see him, or what to say to him when she did. Maybe he'd be furious with her for finding him out and hunting him down. If he had wanted to be with her, she told herself, he would have been. He had made himself perfectly clear, she argued with herself all the way across the Atlantic. But he was wrong. That was the whole point. He was entirely, totally wrong. He didn't have to do that for her, didn't have to sacrifice himself. She didn't give a damn if he never walked again, except for his sake, but not for her own. All she could do now was find him, and tell him that. But she knew it would be no easy thing. He was a very stubborn man. She remembered all too vividly his many objections to Joe marrying Jane.

As the plane landed at Dulles Airport, Isabelle closed her eyes and said a silent prayer that he would listen to her. She had no idea if he would. But she was going to give it one hell of a try.

She had his office address in her pocket, and
trembling in the chill air, she stepped into a cab, and gave the driver the address of the Four Seasons Hotel in Georgetown, where she'd made a reservation the night before. All she had to do now was find out where he was.

Chapter 18

It was nearly four o'clock
when Isabelle settled into her room at the hotel. And she knew she had to call his office soon if she was going to find out where he was going that night. Or maybe she should just walk in on him in the office. Maybe she was totally crazy to have come. There were a thousand scenarios in her head, and she had no idea how any of them would work out. And as she stared at the phone, she was beginning to think she'd made a terrible mistake. Maybe he had just fallen out of love with her. Finally, after another half hour of total terror, she picked up the phone.

A receptionist answered, and Isabelle made herself sound busy, crazed, and stressed.

“Hi, I'm with security for tonight. What time will Mr. Robinson arrive?” She forced herself to sound American, so the woman wouldn't know she was French.

“God, I don't know,” the girl said, sounding even more stressed than Isabelle could pretend. “They're going to six different events. Who is this again?”

“Security. You know, for the dinner.”

“Oh, of course … damn … I thought he canceled that… no, that's right… okay … he's coming to you at nine o'clock … he's sorry to be late, but he just can't get there any sooner. You'll be his fourth event. And he can't stay long … now, you know he's in a wheelchair, right?”

“Right. I've got that in my notes,” Isabelle said, sounding official and informed.

“You need to take away the chair at the table so he can wheel himself in. He doesn't like to make a fuss. And he doesn't want to be photographed in the chair. Very low profile. He and Senator Johnson want to come in a side door, and they'll leave the same way.”

“Right,” Isabelle said, but she still didn't know where the dinner was and she couldn't ask.

“Senator Johnson has his own security, and they'll meet you at the side entrance of the Kennedy Center just like last time….” Thank you, God, Isabelle whispered to herself. The Kennedy Center.

“Will he be in black tie? … just so we see him right away …” She needed to know what to wear.

“No, he's very sorry … he won't… I'm sure that's all right.”

“It's fine.”

They went over the details for another ten minutes, and Isabelle no longer cared what the receptionist said. All she needed to know was that he'd be at the Kennedy Center at nine o'clock that night. And he would be leaving at ten o'clock for his next event. She could either confront him on the way in, or the way out, or she could make a scene at dinner, hide under his table, or pull a gun on him … the possibilities were
endless, and most of them sounded absolutely hopeless to her now that she was here. She had no idea how to do this, but she knew she had to try.

In the end, she decided to meet him outside, after the dinner, on his way out. That would mean ten o'clock. It was six hours away. The longest six hours of her life. She called the concierge and hired a limousine for that night. And after that she sat in her room worrying about what she was going to say to him, or if he'd even give her a chance to speak. It was a distinct possibility that he would just brush her off and tell her there was nothing to say. It was Bill who had said that he never wanted to see her again, but he had lied to her. He had told her he could walk and that he and Cindy had renewed their vows. She hadn't been able to understand for five months how he could just sever all ties with her like that. But now she understood perfectly. It was all about not being a burden on her. That was why he hadn't wanted to see her in Paris, she realized, because he didn't want her to know that he still couldn't walk, and never would. She had figured it all out. What she hadn't figured out was how to convince him to change his mind. And she knew she'd only have minutes with him, with the senator standing by, before he got in a car and drove away. She had no idea what she was going to say. I love you was a start, but he knew that anyway, and had when he ended their affair, and it hadn't stopped him then. Why would it now?

There was so much he didn't know, about Teddy, that she had left Gordon and moved out. He didn't know that he'd broken her heart when he left. And most
of all, he didn't know that she didn't care that he was in a wheelchair for the rest of his life. All she wanted was to be with him, and love him for as long as he lived.

As she sat there, thinking about him, she began to wonder if it was a mistake trying to see him that night. Maybe she should try and see him in the office, or call him on the phone. She knew he must be crazed, with the election only three days away. She could wait until afterward, she told herself, but he might leave town, or disappear. She didn't want to wait. They had waited long enough.

She couldn't eat that night, she tried to take a nap and was wide awake. In the end, she took a bath and dressed, and at nine-thirty she was in the limousine, speeding toward the Kennedy Center, and then panicked when they reached the side entrance. What if he had already left? She was numb with worry by the time she got out of the car, and went to stand off to the side, where she could watch the entrance, and see him when he came out. It was freezing cold, but she didn't care, and then like some kind of terrifying omen, it started to snow.

Big lacy flakes began drifting down from the sky. They were the kind that stick to your clothes and your lashes and your hair. They came with no warning, and there was a brisk wind that seemed to blow them everywhere. By ten-fifteen there was no sign of him, and she was sure he had left by some other door. Maybe there had been a change of plan. Isabelle was wearing a big heavy black coat and a sable hat, warm black suede boots, and gloves. She was still freezing cold anyway, and covered with snow.

By ten-thirty, she had lost hope. She knew she would have to find some other way and try again. She'd have to attempt some other ploy the next day. She told herself she'd stay until eleven o'clock, just so she could tell herself she had, but she was sure that Bill and the senator would be long gone by then, to their next event.

But at ten to eleven, there was a flurry of activity near the door. Two off-duty policemen came out, looking fairly obvious, a uniformed security man with a wire in his ear, and then a good-looking man with his head down against the wind who strode out of the building and headed toward a waiting car that had appeared from nowhere. Isabelle hadn't seen it before. He looked vaguely like the senator to her, but she wasn't sure from the angle of his face. She watched him for a moment, and no one else came out. She was wondering if Bill hadn't come at all, or had decided to stay. And as she watched, she saw a wheelchair roll slowly out. There were people talking intently to him, and he was nodding, listening to what they said. He was wheeling the chair himself. He was wearing a thick scarf and a dark coat, and she saw instantly that it was Bill. She could feel her heart pound as she watched him wheel himself toward the steps, and then take a ramp down toward where she stood. He hadn't noticed her, and the others left him and ran back inside to escape the snow. The senator and his men were already in the limousine, and they were waiting for him.

And feeling as though she were taking her life in her hands, she walked to the ramp, and began walking up
to where he was. She met him halfway, standing squarely in his path. His head was down against the wind, and all he saw were her coat and her legs, and he muttered “excuse me” absentmindedly, but she didn't move away.

Isabelle looked at him, and he heard her voice before he saw her face. “You lied to me,” she said in the voice he had dreamed of for five months, and told himself he would never hear again. His eyes rose to hers, and he couldn't say a word. He just looked at her, stunned, and tried to regain his composure as quickly as he could.

“Hello, Isabelle. What a coincidence to see you here.” He assumed instantly that Gordon had come to town on business and she had accompanied him. He made no explanation as to why he was in the wheelchair, in spite of what he'd told her months before.

“Actually, it's not a coincidence,” she said honestly. It was far too late for more lies. “I flew here from Paris to see you.” He didn't know how to answer her, as the wind whipped their faces, and the snow collected on her hat. She looked like a Christmas card, or a Russian princess to him. She looked so beautiful, it broke his heart, but nothing showed in his face. He forced himself to look dispassionate and unconcerned, and to hide everything he felt. He had become a master of that.

“I have to go. Cynthia is waiting in the car for me.” It was the only excuse he could think of for a rapid escape. He knew he needed to get away from her as quickly as he could, before he lost his resolve.

“No, she's not,” Isabelle said, pulling her coat
tightly around herself. “You're divorced. You lied about that too.”