Richard Patterson - Balance of Power

Clayton raised his eyebrows. "Isn't that the cardinal's call?"

"I'm the President, Clayton. Vince McKiernan can pass out wafers."

Clayton smiled at this. "A simple nuptial mass," Francesca Thibault offered, "with tasteful liturgical music."

Kit glanced at Lara. "Who might be in the wedding party?"

"Beautiful people," Francesca suggested dryly, "without a hint of scandal."

"My college roommates," Lara said. "Anna Chen from NBC is one of my closest friends. My sisters, of course."

Kit gave an emphatic nod. "That's great. The media, including the Spanish language media, will want them before the wedding . . ."

"Oh, absolutely," Lara said with mock sincerity. "Hispanics and women carried California. And who better to help with Catholics than my family?"

"They're part of who you are," Kit answered. "It's your burden, Lara, to be more popular than the President."

"We're all proud of Lara's family," Kerry interjected. "But having them with us is enough. We don't want anyone to use them."

Lara touched his arm. "For Kerry's sake," she told the others, "I'll do my part. I'll learn to live with becoming 'Lara Costello Kilcannon.' I'll even consider television. But about my family, I want everything—and I mean that—to go through Connie and me."

"Of course." Clayton said this so quickly that Lara wondered if he and Kit had used her family as a cat's-paw, hoping for other concessions to political practicality. Like a televised wedding at St. Mathew's.

"Concerning the gown," Francesca Thibault suggested brightly, "this is a chance to put your stamp on contemporary fashion. But the designer has to be an American—perhaps Vera Wang or Carolina Herrera . . ."

* * *

When the meeting was over, Clayton asked to speak to them alone.

"About the honeymoon," he observed, "isn't Martha's Vineyard too much of a privileged enclave?"

"We like it," Kerry answered crisply. "Sorry, pal, no Yellowstone. Or pup tents with mosquito nets."

Clayton's smile came and went. "The other thing is Lara's sister. Joan."

"What about Joan?" Lara asked.

Clayton turned to her. "For a week now, the President's managed to keep her problems quiet. But once the media knows you're getting married, there'll be more focus on your family—including your brother-inlaw. Your chances of keeping that from becoming public will diminish day by day.

"Imagine some tabloid story two days before the wedding—embarrassing your family, sapping some of the joy out of what, for them and all the rest of us, should be a wonderful day . . ."

Listening, Lara imagined Joan's sense of betrayal. "We're trying to protect her, Clayton."

"Then talk to her about a carefully managed disclosure, sooner rather than later. Perhaps softened with a broader message on combating family violence."

Lara stared at him. Glancing at her, Kerry said softly, "Remember my mother? You know how I feel about this."

Clayton was unflinching. "What happened to your mother ended twenty-five years ago. You're President now and the media's very different. You won't be able to control this."

"We can damn well try," Kerry told his closest friend. "Beginning with you."

TEN

Standing in her kitchen, Joan Bowden held the telephone to her ear, one finger of her other hand resting on the replay button of her answering machine. Her throat was dry. The living room was filled with flowers; the answering machine jammed with messages. It was only two p.m.

"I didn't want to call you," she said to Kerry. "But it's been like this since I got the stay-away order. Deliverymen ringing the doorbell, John leaving message after message. He sounds more desperate every day."

"What does he say?" the President asked.

"Listen," Joan said, and pushed the button. Her husband's disembodied voice echoed in the kitchen.

I love you, Joanie. I know there's something wrong with me. But I can't change unless you help me . . .

"Did you talk to him?" Kerry cut in.

"Yes. I asked him to go with me to counseling . . ."

I don't need therapy , the recorded voice said. I don't need anyone but you. We can fix it together . . .

Joan stabbed the stop button. Wearily, she said, "He just keeps saying that, over and over . . ."

* * *

As Kerry listened, her words over the speakerphone sounded in the Oval Office. Their tension kept him taut and still. "Joanie," he entreated, "don't let John pull you back in . . ."

"His trial's coming up." Her voice became constricted. "I'm scared for him, scared for us. If he loses his job . . ."

"He's trying to scare you. It's emotional terrorism . . ."

" Listen ," she insisted, and her husband's plaintive voice filled the Oval Office.

I can't go to work, Joanie. I can't even get out of bed . . .

"He managed to send you flowers," Kerry interjected. "To make phone call after phone call . . ."

You're destroying me . Bowden's tone approached hysteria. Y ou've taken my home, my daughter, my reason for living . . .

"It's like he's in the room," Joan was saying. "I can feel him." Her husband's voice sounded muffled by choked tears.

Marie. I miss my little girl . . .

Softly, Kerry requested, "Please, turn him off."

There was a moment's delay, and then Bowden's pleading went silent in midsentence.

Kerry exhaled. "There's nothing new here. 'I'm the victim,' John keeps saying. 'Come back into my closed-off world, or terrible things may happen.' "

Kerry waited out her silence. Tiredly, Joan asked, "What if I just tried it . . ."

Hearing her despair, Kerry fought his worry and impatience. "Last week, Joanie, he put a gun to your head."

There was a knock at Kerry's door, and Clayton stuck his head in.

Switching off the speaker, Kerry picked up his telephone. "Hang on," he said to Joan, and stared at Clayton. In silent inquiry, Clayton raised his eyebrows.

"I'm on with Joan," Kerry snapped. "What is it?"

Clayton's brusque nod was, Kerry knew, meant to telegraph his concern about Joan Bowden. "Sorry to interrupt," Clayton answered, "but Martin Bresler's on the line, sounding close to suicidal."

Kerry frowned. While useful, Martin Bresler struck him as someone whose sense of disproportion might lead him to deem every internecine skirmish worthy of a President's attention. "Try Jack Sanders," Kerry instructed. "He's Bresler's contact person."

"I suggested that. Bresler says he has to talk to you. Do you want to just say no, or set another time?"

Pausing, Kerry thought of Joan. "How much time do I have right now?"

"The AIDS activists have been waiting for ten minutes. After them you've got the National Security Council."

Kerry glanced at his watch. "Tell the AIDS people I'll be with them in five, and put Bresler through."

Clayton briefly disappeared, giving instructions to Kerry's secretary. With fresh urgency, Kerry said to Joan, "Please, hang in there until the hearing. Keep calling to check in."

"Okay." She sounded unsettled and unsure. "It's just so hard . . ."

Distracted, Kerry motioned Clayton to take a seat. When Joan said a wan goodbye, he picked up his second line.

"Martin?" he asked. "What's up?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. President. The gun-show deal's off."

Bresler sounded jangled, like a man who had drunk too much coffee with too little sleep or food. "Why?" the President asked.

"They just did it." Bresler's speech was rapid. "I really can't talk about that. I just wanted to tell you myself. I was proud to work with you, Mr. President. But now I've got no job . . ."

"Is there something I can do?"

"No." Bresler's voice lowered. "You've got no idea how much they hate you."