The Last Flight(7)
Marjorie Cook had been famous for her bipartisan negotiating skills, her ability to swing the most difficult and conservative senators toward more moderate policy. There had been quiet talk of a presidential run, long before Hillary or even Geraldine Ferraro. But Marjorie had died of colon cancer Rory’s freshman year of college, forever leaving a mother-shaped hole that filled with a potent combination of insecurity and resentment that often bubbled over, burning those who dared to keep his mother in the foreground when discussing his political future.
“You haven’t given me any details about the press conference to share,” I tell them, watching Bruce pack up his desk for the night, tracking his movements from the corner of my eye. Pens in the top drawer. Laptop into its case, then into his bag to take home.
After Bruce leaves, Rory sits back and crosses his legs. “How was your day?”
“Good.” My left foot jiggles, the only indication of my nerves. Rory’s gaze lands on it, eyebrows raised, and I press my heel into the carpet, willing myself to be still.
“It was Center Street Literacy, right?” He steeples his fingers, his tie loose around his neck. I watch him, as if from a great distance, this man I once loved. The lines around his eyes are evidence of laughter, of happiness that we shared. But those same lines have been deepened by rage as well. A dark violence that has blotted out everything good I once saw in him.
“Yes. Their annual fundraiser is coming up in eight months. Danielle should be transcribing the notes and will get them to you tomorrow. I’ll be taking on the silent auction again.”
“Anything else?” he asks. His voice is neutral, but something in the set of his shoulders grabs my attention. My instincts—finely tuned after years of reading the subtext of Rory’s tone and expressions—are screaming at me to be careful.
“Not that I can think of.”
“I see,” he says, and then takes a deep, meditative breath, as if he’s trying to center himself. “Can you please close the door?”
I stand, my legs feeling weak beneath me as I walk slowly to the door, terrified he’s somehow figured out what I’m about to do. I take my time, measuring my pace, trying not to panic yet. When I sit again, I’ve wiped the fear from my face, replacing it with neutral curiosity. When he doesn’t speak right away, I prompt him. “Is everything okay?”
His gaze is cold. “You must think I’m stupid.”
I’m unable to speak, or even blink. I’ve lost before I’ve even begun. My thoughts race, trying to find a foothold, trying to compose myself, to explain away whatever he’s discovered—the clothes, the money I’ve been siphoning off, my meetings with Petra. I fight the urge to throw open the door and run, giving up whatever I’ve gained. I look toward the darkened windows, reflecting the room back to us, and manage to say, “What are you talking about?”
“I heard you were late again today. May I ask why?”
I let out a slow breath, all my nerves loosening. “I was at the gym.”
“The gym is less than half a mile from the Center Street offices.” Rory pulls his glasses off and leans back in his desk chair. His face slips out of the puddle of light cast from his desk lamp and into darkness. “What are you not telling me?”
I suffuse my voice with a warmth I don’t feel, desperate to allay his fears before they take over. “Nothing,” I insist. “I decided to stay for a spin class that started at two thirty.”
“With whom?”
“What do you mean, like who was the instructor?”
“Don’t be obtuse,” he snaps. “You’re constantly either heading off to the gym, or coming back from it. It’s every day now. Is it your trainer? That would be a pathetic cliché.”
“I don’t have a trainer,” I tell him, my mouth suddenly dry and sticky. “I lift weights. Run on the treadmill, or take spin classes. I was sore after my workout, so I spent some time in the sauna and lost track of time. That’s all.” I fight to keep my face blank, but my hands betray me, gripping the arms of the chair as if bracing for a blow. Rory’s gaze catches on them, and I force myself to relax. He stands and walks around his desk and sits in the chair next to mine.
“We have a lot of hard work ahead, Claire,” he says, taking another sip of whiskey. “Starting next week, all eyes will be on us. There cannot be a trace of scandal.”
I have to dig deep to deliver my line convincingly, one last time. “You don’t need to worry.”
Rory leans over and brushes a soft kiss across my lips and whispers, “I’m glad to hear it.”
*
When Rory finally climbs into bed around eleven, I pretend to be asleep, listening to the sound of his breathing settle and slow, waiting. When the clock reads one, I ease out of bed, eager to get the final piece I need before I leave, swiping Rory’s cell phone from the charger on his nightstand before I slip into the darkened hall. I can’t risk his phone buzzing with a call or text, waking him up.
Our townhouse reeks of old money. Dark wood, thick rugs plush beneath my bare feet. I’m no stranger to middle-of-the-night wandering. It’s the only time our home feels like mine. I move through the rooms unobserved, and as I take my final late-night stroll, I feel a sense of sadness. Not for the townhouse, which has been nothing more than a luxurious prison, but for myself.