Danielle Steel - Journey

“Anything you can tell me about, or is it all top secret?”

“Pretty much.” She would know it from what they gave her to report on the news. What she would never know, nor would anyone else, was the reality, or the original, undoctored version. “What are we doing for dinner?” he asked as he turned off the set.

“I can whip something up if you want,” she said, setting down her packages. She still looked impeccable and beautiful after her long day of shopping. “Or I can order something in.”

“Why don't we go out? I've been locked up all day with a bunch of guys. It might be nice to see some real people.” He picked up the phone and made reservations for them at nine o'clock at Citronelle, which was the most fashionable restaurant in Washington at the moment. “Go put on something pretty.”

“Yes, sir.” She smiled at him, and disappeared upstairs to their bedroom with all the things she'd bought in New York, and she returned an hour later, bathed, combed, perfumed, in a simple black cocktail dress and high-heeled sandals, with her diamond studs and a pearl necklace. Jack bought her pretty things from time to time, and she looked wonderful in them. The diamond studs and her eight-carat engagement ring were her prize possessions. Not bad for a kid from a trailer park in Chattanooga, she often admitted to him, and he called her “poor white trash” when he wanted to really tease her. She didn't love it, but it was true. She couldn't deny it to him, although she had come so far and grown so far beyond it. It was obvious that he thought calling her that was funny, although hearing the words always made her wince at the image he conjured.

“You clean up pretty good,” he said by way of a compliment and she smiled at him. She loved going out with him, being his, and letting the whole world see it. The thrill of being married to him had never dimmed for her, even now that she was a star in her own right. More people knew her than him now, or it was fairly even. He was the tycoon behind the scenes, the man the President consulted for media advice, but she was the woman other women and girls wanted to be, and the face that many men dreamed of. She was the presence in their living room, the voice they trusted, the woman who told them the truth about tough things, as best she could, as she had about Janet McCutchins and countless other women like her. Maddy had a lot of integrity, and it showed. And it came in a hell of an attractive package. As Greg said about her constantly, she was “gorgeous.” She looked it now, as they left for the restaurant for dinner.

Jack drove her himself, which was rare for him, and they chatted about New York on the way. It was obvious that he could say nothing about his meetings. And once at Citronelle, they were taken by the headwaiter to a highly visible table. Heads turned, and people commented on who they were and how beautiful she was. The women looked at Jack too, he was a handsome man, with a sexy smile, eyes that took everything in, and a great deal of presence about him. Everything about them exuded success and power, and in Washington that was important. Dozens of people stopped at their table to chat with them, mostly politicians, and one of the President's advisers. And every few minutes someone would come hesitantly up to them and ask Maddy for her autograph, and she would scribble it for them with a warm smile, and chat with them for a few minutes.

“Don't you get sick of that, Mad?” Jack asked as he poured her another glass of wine. The waiter had left it chilling in a bucket next to their table. It was Château Cheval Blanc 1959, Jack was an expert on fine wines, and this was a great one.

“Not really. I think it's sweet that they know who I am, and they care enough to ask.” She was always gracious about it, and people came away from meeting her feeling as though they'd made a new friend, and liking her even better in person than on TV. Approaching Jack was a little more daunting, he was a lot less friendly.

It was nearly midnight when they left the restaurant, and on Sunday, they flew down to Virginia for the day. Jack hated missing a minute he could spend there. He rode for a while, and they had lunch outside. It was a hot day, and he commented that it was going to be a great summer.

“Are we going anywhere?” Maddy asked on the way back. She knew he hated to make plans, and he liked deciding at the last minute and just springing it on her. He would arrange for a stand-in for her on the news, and then he'd whisk her away. But she liked it better when she had a little advance notice. Sometimes he only told her the day before or that morning. And she could never say that she needed more time. They didn't have kids, and he was her boss, so if he decided she was leaving with him, there was no one to say that she couldn't. She was always free to go with him.

“I haven't decided about the summer yet,” he said vaguely. He never asked her where she wanted to go, but he always picked places she loved in the end. Life was full of surprises with Jack. And who was she to complain? Without him, she would never be able to go to these places. “I guess we'll go to Europe.” She knew it was all the warning she'd get, and maybe all she needed.

“Let me know when to pack,” she teased, as though she had nothing to do, and could drop everything at a moment's notice. But sometimes that was exactly what he expected of her.

“I will,” he acknowledged, and then took some papers out of his briefcase, which was the signal that he had nothing more to say to her for the moment.

She read a book the rest of the way home, it was one that the First Lady had recommended to her, a work about crimes of violence against women, and it was full of depressing but interesting statistics.

“What's that?” he asked, pointing at the book as they landed at National.

“Phyllis gave it to me. It's about crimes of violence against women.”

“Like what? Cutting up their credit cards?” he said with a smile, and there was a pained look in Maddy's eyes as he said it. She hated it when he belittled issues that were important to her. “Don't get yourself too wound up over this commission, Mad. It's a great image-maker for you, which is why I suggested it, but let's not get crazy with it. You don't need to become the leading champion for battered women.”

“I like what they're doing, and where they're going with it. It's something I really care about, and you know that.” She spoke to him quietly but emotionally as they taxied down the runway after they landed.

“I just know how you are. You can get awfully overboard about things. This is about image, Mad, not about becoming Joan of Arc. Keep your perspective. A lot of what they say about abused women is just plain crap.”

“Like what?” she said, feeling a cold chill run down her spine, as she wondered what he was really saying to her.

“All that garbage about date rape and sexual harassment is just that, and probably more than half the women who are either kicked around by their husbands or allegedly murdered by them deserved it.” He said it with the utmost conviction as she stared at him.

“Are you serious? I can't believe you mean that. What about me? Do you think I deserved what Bobby Joe did to me? Is that what you think?”

“He was a small-time punk, and a drunk, and God only knows what you may have said to provoke him. A lot of people fight, Mad, some take a few pokes at each other, some get hurt, but that doesn't necessarily warrant a crusade, and it's not a national emergency. Believe me, if you asked her privately, I'm sure Phyllis is doing it for the same reasons I wanted you to. It looks good.” Maddy felt sick as she listened.

“I can't believe what I'm hearing,” she said in a whisper. “Her mother was abused by her father for all her married life, and Phyllis grew up with that. So did I. So do a lot of people, Jack. And in some cases, beatings aren't enough, they have to kill the women just to prove how tough they are, and how worthless the women are. What does that sound like to you, just your ordinary fight? When was the last time you kicked a woman down the stairs, or hit her with a chair, or took a hot iron to her, or put bleach in her eyes, or burned her with litcigarettes? Do you have any idea what these people go through?”