Private Indiscretions

They said their goodbyes.

Dana tried to work. She needed to review two reports her staff had put together before her meetings tomorrow but her eyes kept closing. Useless, she decided. Better to get some sleep and get up an hour earlier in the morning.

She set her alarm for 4:00 a.m. then shoved her briefcase and paperwork to the other side of the bed. She would have turned out the light except that her gaze landed on an envelope sandwiched between an L.L.Bean catalog and a supermarket ad.

She slid it free. The envelope had weight and texture much like a wedding invitation, yet no return address, just her name and address, typed in a calligraphy-style font, fancy and hard to read. A San Francisco postmark. Most people addressed her mail as Senator or The Honorable. On this envelope her name bore no title of any kind, not even Ms. She opened the flap, unfolded the single sheet of cream-colored vellum.

If you run for reelection, I’ll make public everything I know about your saintly late husband.

Four

It was 3:00 a.m. before Sam arrived at his Santa Monica home, his mood as black as the sky. First, he’d forgotten about the valedictorian medal in his pocket until he set off the airport metal detector. Then the flight was delayed over an hour because of mechanical problems. After that, the car service didn’t show to pick him up and he had to take a cab home.

As he paid the driver, he counted four newspapers scattered in his driveway, even though his neighbor had promised to pick them up daily. He dragged a hand down his face. One more thing to do before he flew back to San Francisco tomorrow night—cancel the paper. He was on the road too much now, anyway.

He punched his code into the keyless entry panel then felt the cool welcome of home, his first real home, a 1920s Craftsman that suited his needs perfectly. Newly renovated and true to the original architectural style, the house had tugged at him from the first moment he saw it. The fact he could afford it still made him shake his head in wonder. The simple mission-style furniture was complemented by soothing Asian undertones and accent pieces he’d picked up in his travels. It would do until he could build the house of his dreams. He’d already designed it.

Sam detoured into his office on the way to the bedroom. The message light on his answering machine flashed. He pressed the Playback button.

“Hello, Sam, dear, it’s Rosa Giannini. I’m sorry to tell you that Ernie passed away this evening. One minute he was talking to me, then he closed his eyes and he was gone…. I’m trying to convince myself he’s in a better place, free of pain, but it’s…hard.”

Sam squeezed his eyes shut at the catch in her voice and the grief-filled pause that followed.

“The services will be on Saturday,” Rosa continued. “I understand if you can’t make it, though. He was so glad you came to see him last weekend. He loved you so much, Sam.” She was quiet a moment, then, “You probably think he was the one doing you favors through the years, but he needed you as much as you needed him. You were a blessing in his life, in our lives. I hope you know you’ll always be welcome here.”

Again a pause. Sam stared at the ceiling and swallowed hard against the ache in his throat.

“Don’t send flowers, dear. Do something that would make Ernie smile. You already made him proud. Stay in touch.”

The scent of cherry pipe tobacco seemed to fill the room. Sam closed his eyes and saw his friend. Sweater vests and bow ties and shirts that lost their starch before the lunch bell. A fringe of salt-and-pepper hair that gave him an impish-monk look, especially when added to the Santa Claus belly. Sam heard his mentor’s dry chuckle, felt a grip on his shoulder, a squeeze of encouragement.

How could he attend the funeral of the man he’d wished a thousand times was his father? How could he wear his grief openly for the person who’d made him believe in himself?

He would send flowers, though, because he’d learned that simple things helped those left behind. And for himself as well as Rosa he would do something that would make his old friend smile.

After another minute Sam’s bed beckoned, singing its siren song to his weary body and soul. His training wouldn’t let him go to bed without hanging up his suit and putting the rest of his clothes in the hamper. He slid under the sheets finally, closed his eyes and lay there for a few seconds before tossing the bedding aside and going to the closet. When he returned it was with his medal in hand.

He’d earned it because of Ernest Giannini, then had turned his back on the honor, which was like turning his back on his teacher, diminishing, if not discounting, its—and his—importance.

The medal meant something, Sam realized. He’d told Dana otherwise, but now he knew differently.

He gripped it hard, felt it heat his hand and the edge dig into his palm.

He needed to thank Dana for keeping the medal for him, for making him take it back. He’d not only been ungrateful but rude.

He returned to his closet and came out with a small wooden chest, which he placed on his bed. He hesitated before opening the lid, as if the contents of Pandora’s box would fly out. Finally he pushed the lid up. Inside were ragged pieces of lined notebook paper torn into squares with words penciled on them, front and back. A question from him on one side, an answer from Dana on the other.

He sifted through them, remembering. Their competition to be class valedictorian had started in ninth grade when teachers began to notice how often they asked and answered questions in class. Soon they were competing for the top scores on tests and papers, encouraged by their teachers. They ran neck and neck for all four years. It had come down to the last semester. He’d gotten an A in math; she’d gotten an A minus. That was difference. The only difference.

Sam pulled a piece of paper from the box. Outside the classroom they would write questions down and slip them into each other’s locker. He’d kept them all. Not just academic questions like, “What does Moby Dick represent?” but life questions and riddles and puzzles.

He looked at the one he’d grabbed.

Question: “Why did the punk rocker cross the road?”

Answer: “He was stapled to the chicken.”

Sam smiled, then he remembered the one that had changed the tone of their questions. “Do you think Marsha Crandall is sexy?” she’d asked, referring to a classmate. It was the first time she’d asked a provocative question. “I told her as much just the other night,” he answered, teasing, lying.

Dana had snubbed him for three days after that, but eventually it led to many more provocative questions, a flirtation on paper, although they still didn’t talk outside of class much, and usually only about a project or paper. But she always looked at him expectantly, as if waiting for him to make some kind of move. He didn’t have any moves to make. He wouldn’t have known a move if it stood naked in front of him and waved its arms.

And now he needed to write her a note, thanking her for keeping the medal. Thank-you notes weren’t his forte. He offered thanks in person, or he sent flowers or wine or something else appropriate for the favor.

What does one give the woman who has everything?

The next night Dana pulled in to her driveway after dinner at Lilith’s. She’d made it through the day and evening without showing the letter to anyone. Threats were nothing new, although she’d never gotten one quite like this.

If you run for reelection, I’ll make public everything I know about your saintly late husband.

Randall had been in the public eye all his life. What was there to tell? Why the emphasis on “saintly”?

She should turn the note over to her chief of staff, who would make a decision about whether to take it seriously, but something stopped her. If it had been a threat to expose her for past deeds, she would have let the blackmailer dig. There was nothing to find, nothing shocking or newsworthy, anyway.

But this was Randall’s reputation. She would guard it with her life—and her political career. Still, did one letter necessitate an investigation?

Dana felt a brush of fabric against her calves as she walked from her garage into the house. She’d gone straight from work to Lilith’s after changing into something feminine and flattering at the office. The evening turned out to be lovely, her “date” a patent attorney, newly divorced and attentive, and entirely too agreeable. Lilith was known for throwing parties that inspired great debates long into the evening. She and her husband may be conservative, but they knew the value of cultivating people of varying convictions.

Tonight hadn’t been any different, and yet it had been. The mix of people wasn’t as diverse. Dana could also see that Lilith wasn’t feeling well. They’d gone into her office to look at the birth announcements she’d already started designing on her computer, which was the only excuse Dana could think of for getting Lilith alone for a few minutes.

“You crafty person,” Dana said, admiring the design. “I don’t know how you find the time.”

“When it’s fun, you make the time.”

Dana settled a hand on her friend’s shoulder and looked closely at her. “You don’t seem yourself tonight. Are you doing too much?”

Lilith laid a protective hand on her belly. “Braxton Hicks,” she said, as if Dana was supposed to know what that meant. Lilith explained that they were contractions, but not the kind indicating imminent birth, just discomfort.

Because Lilith wasn’t up to par everyone agreed to make it an early evening, which was fine with Dana. The patent attorney asked if he could call her, and she’d given him her office number then headed home.

When she heard the television on in her housekeeper’s room, she knocked on the door and waited. Hilda would never call out for her to enter but would come to the door, wearing her pristine white chenille robe like a suit of armor. She’d been with Randall’s family forever and was in no hurry to stop working, even though she was eligible for social security and Medicare. She also believed in a strict employer/employee relationship, much to Dana’s disappointment. She could have used a friendly face around the house in the months after Randall died.

“Good evening, ma’am,” Hilda said.

“Hi. How were your days off with your daughter and grandchildren?”

“Fine, thank you. How was your evening at the Pauls’?”

“Very nice.” Invite me in. Let’s open a bottle of wine, and talk. “Any messages?” Did Randall have secrets?