The Secrets We Kept(37)

“I don’t…I don’t really like being the center of attention.”

Teddy laughed. “The talent you were hired for,” he said. “But really. Sorry about that. People here latch on to a rumor like a dog to a mailman.”

“A dog?”

“I mean, I’m sorry. I thought it would be nice.”

“It was nice…it’s just that…do we want people knowing we know each other?”

He scratched his chin and leaned forward. “Maybe it could work as a cover. If people think we’re dating, they won’t suspect anything out of the ordinary if they see us together. Nothing serious—no harm done, right? Unless you have a real boyfriend who might get upset?”

“I don’t have a boyfriend, but—”

“Perfect,” he said. “Wanna start now? We could get a drink at Martin’s. Don’t they all congregate there?”

“I don’t know.”

Teddy held up the now empty glass. “Let’s just stop by for a minute.”

“Isn’t that the kind of thing that’s frowned upon in the workplace?”

“Pardon my French, but half the Agency wouldn’t get laid if we didn’t date each other. Besides, we’re not really dating, are we?”



* * *



—

Teddy took my hand as we crossed the threshold into Martin’s. The bar was crowded with K Street lobbyists—Teddy said you could pick them out by their finer suits and shoes so new they still squeaked on the waxed floor. They took up real estate at the bar while their poorly dressed government counterparts occupied the tables. Law interns mingled at the buffet, loading up on oysters. And the typing pool was still there, sitting at a booth to the left of the bar.

“How ’bout we sit there?” I asked, pointing at a two-top across the room.

“Let’s grab a drink at the bar first.”

“They have waitresses, I think.”

“This’ll be quicker.” We squeezed ourselves in and Teddy signaled for the bartender to bring us two whiskeys. He paid and held up his glass. “To new friends,” he said. And just as we clinked, I felt a tap on my shoulder.

“Irina,” Norma said. “You finally made it to Martin’s. Come on over and join us.” She looked at Teddy. “You, too, Teddy.”

“It was a last-minute sorta thing,” Teddy said. “We have dinner reservations at Rive Gauche. Just stopped in for a drink.”

“Rive Gauche? How’d you land that on Valentine’s?”

“Friend owed me a favor.”

“Why don’t you join us for your drink? There’s plenty of room at our table.”

We looked over at the table and the girls looked away. “Sure,” I said. “Why not?”

“Look who the cat dragged in,” Norma said, escorting us to the booth. The girls scooted around to make room. I took a seat, but Teddy remained standing. “Excuse me for a moment, ladies.” We watched as he went to the jukebox and started feeding it change.

Judy elbowed me. “Nothing going on with you two, huh?”

Norma gave Judy a told-you-so look. “White rose on the desk in the morning? Rive Gauche at night?”

“Rive Gauche?” Kathy said. “Fancy.”

Teddy returned just as the jukebox clicked on a record. He took his jacket off and handed it to Judy, who forced a smile. Was she jealous? Of me? “Wanna dance?” he asked.

“But no one’s dancing,” I said.

“They will be,” Teddy replied, extending a hand. “Come on! This is Little Richard!”

“Little who?” Without waiting for my answer, he took my hand and led me to the dance floor: a square of parquet with no tables on it. I was never a very good dancer—all arms and legs that never seemed to cooperate with each other—but I still loved to try. And boy, could Teddy dance. Not only was every pair of eyes in the typing pool on us, it seemed everyone in the place was watching. Teddy spun me around as if he were Fred Astaire and I felt I was playing a role—and playing it well. I ate up the feeling just as I had at the Mayflower drop. Teddy pulled me closer. “They’ve bought it,” he whispered.

After another dance and another drink, we left the bar. Out on the sidewalk, I said goodbye. Teddy interrupted. “You don’t want to grab some dinner?”

“I thought that was just something you said.”

“What if I said I really do have reservations at Rive Gauche?”

I thought of the leftover borscht Mama would be reheating, then looked down at the pea-soup-colored dress I’d worn that day. “I’m not really dressed for that kind of place.”

“You look beautiful,” he said, and held out his hand. “Let’s go.”





CHAPTER 9





THE TYPISTS


Another Friday morning at Ralph’s. Another doughnut, another mug of coffee. By the time we left the diner, the chilly fall morning had turned mild. We molted our hats and scarves and opened our jackets as we made our way down E Street.

First thing in the morning, SR was usually bustling with people settling in at their desks or grabbing coffee in the break room or rushing into one of the many morning briefings that started promptly at nine fifteen. The phone at reception would already be ringing, the chairs in the waiting area already filled. But not that day in early October. That day, reception was empty, as was the break room, as was every desk surrounding the typing pool.