Chapter 22
The vice president wasn’t in residence that night, Fields told me. He paid a maid to let him know when he was.
“What good does that do?”
He shrugged. “Never hurts to know who’s going up there with him. It’s not always women.” My mouth dropped open, and Fields started to laugh. “Not like that. At least I don’t think so. But he’s taken some interesting meetings. And then you know who to follow up with.”
I thought about this. “So if this is what you do, what does the senior White House correspondent do?”
The corners of his mouth turned down. “Sit in press conferences and take credit for anything juicy. But my turn will come.”
“Well, you’re halfway there.”
He laughed. “Hey now. I apologized for that.”
“I know, I’m teasing,” I said. My cheeks felt warm. I hadn’t finished my drink, but I pushed it away. That was enough.
“Didn’t you learn to drink in college?”
I shook my head. “I lived at home. Strict parents and no money for room and board.”
“And they let you out in a dress like that?”
“It’s borrowed,” I admitted. “They think I’m on a double date.”
“You almost were,” he said, nodding toward Patricia and the congressman.
“Is there anyone in Washington who doesn’t cheat on his wife?”
“They are few and far between,” he agreed. “But I don’t think we’re finding anything tonight.”
“Why’s that?”
He gestured around the room. “No visibly Cuban women present. You’re the only brunette.”
I turned around. He was right. It was a sparse crowd, and of the four women present, three were blond—though I suspected that Patricia’s came from a bottle. And all were engaged at tables with men. “Hair color can be changed,” I said, nodding toward Patricia. “What happens next, then?”
“I come here a lot. I’ll keep an eye out for our mystery woman from Havana and see what happens.”
I looked at him sharply. “Like hell you will.”
His eyebrows rose in surprise.
“I’m coming with you. This is my lead. I’m not letting you steal it out from under me.”
“I wouldn’t—”
I held up a hand. “Apologies are well and good, but trust has to be earned, Jack Fields.”
He shrugged, then lifted his glass to me. “To our partnership, then.”
I picked up my glass and met his, then took another small sip.
“Tomorrow night?”
I had no idea how I was going to swing two nights in a row, let alone another dress. I had to hope Roberta would be okay with another loan. I agreed that I would be there the next night.
“What time is it?” I asked.
“Ten.”
I pushed my chair back quickly and stood. It would take me nearly an hour to get home by the time I dropped Patricia off, and if I wasn’t home by eleven, I would have a lot more explaining to do. “I should go. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
“Same time, same station,” he said, quoting Jack Benny.
I smiled at him and made my way to Patricia, whose hands were clasped in the congressman’s. “Patricia? I need to get home.”
She glanced up, surprised, as if she had forgotten I was there. “Oh.” Her face fell. “Phil, darling, I suppose I need to leave too.”
“I can take you home,” he said. “Later.”
“I don’t mind driving you,” I told her.
She looked from me, to him, to me again. “It’s fine. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“What about Roberta’s dress?”
She waved a hand. “She won’t even notice. You could probably keep it.”
I didn’t like leaving her. Judging from the number of empty martini glasses on their table, she had obviously had a few drinks, and Fields’s words about the girl Clement had been involved with rang in my ears. If Patricia didn’t make it home, it would be my fault.
“I—uh—I don’t want to walk out by myself,” I said, trying to figure out how to get her alone to warn her. “Walk me to the car at least?”
“Can’t Fields do that? You two looked awfully cozy.”
Great. That was going to be the rumor going around the office tomorrow. I would be sacked for fraternization by Friday.
“Patricia,” I said plaintively. “Please.”
She looked up at me again, then pushed her chair back and stood, the slightest wobble in her step. “I’ll be right back,” she told the congressman. “Don’t you go falling in love with someone else while I’m gone.”
He reached for her hand and kissed it. “Never.”
I wondered what the etiquette involved in vomiting on a congressman was, because he was married and this was disgusting. But I held my tongue until we got upstairs, crossed the lobby, and made it out into the muggy June night air.
“Do I need to walk you across the street too? Or is seeing your car good enough?”
I turned to Patricia. “Don’t stay with him.”
She laughed. “Oh, honey, I can take care of myself.”
“Fields told me—”
“Fields talks too much. It was a shakedown. I told you. He already explained it.”
“Did he explain that the girl had an ‘accident’ right after that? She’s dead.”
Patricia studied me, her expression thawing slowly. She bit the inside of her lip. “Well—that does put a—damper on things—if it wasn’t a real accident, that is.” Then she straightened her posture and fluffed the ends of her hair. “I’ll be careful.”
“Don’t you want someone who isn’t married?”
Her face was sad. “Happy endings only happen in fairy tales—and even then they’re only for the princess in the story, not the girl from the farm.
” She gave me a playful little shove. “Go on home, princess. I’ll see you tomorrow.
” She turned to walk back into the hotel.
“And we’ll be talking about the way Fields was looking at you tomorrow too. ”
I had done the best I could—I just hoped that was enough.
Thankfully, I had left my own dress in the car. I did have to pull over on a side street and shimmy out of Roberta’s dress and into mine, but I managed decently without being seen.
The front light was on, but the living room lights were off, and I breathed a sigh of relief as I let myself into the house.
It was so much easier if my parents were asleep and I didn’t have to tell them about the supposed date—I couldn’t exactly say he had been a louse if I needed to go out again the next night, and I didn’t feel up to waltzing in pretending to be all starry-eyed to convince my parents I was falling in love.
I took my shoes off at the front door and tiptoed up the stairs toward my room.
I flipped on the light and—
—let out a shriek of surprise to find my grandmother sitting in my desk chair with a cup of tea.
“What are you doing in here?” I asked, clutching my chest and trying to steady my breathing.
“I wanted to know how your date went.”
“So you sat in the dark?”
She shrugged. “You would have washed your face first if you knew I was in here. And your parents may believe that tall tale you told, but I know better. Where did you really go all dolled up like that? I won’t tell.”
Historically that had been true—at least when it came to keeping any misdeeds I committed from my parents. But the fewer people who knew about this, the better. And Sylvia Greenberg’s tongue had a tendency to wag at the beauty parlor or mahjong with her friends.
However, she also saw through me immediately when I lied. And if I wasn’t honest, I ran the risk of her asking leading questions in front of my parents. “I’m working on a story.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Is it taking place on a street corner with that lipstick?”
“What? No! But there’s a lead I’m following at a bar. With another reporter. It’s all aboveboard, I promise.”
She stood up and crossed the room toward me, putting a hand on my cheek.
“I know, bubbelah. But you’re going to have to produce a young man soon if you want to keep using that excuse on your parents.
Unless you want me to dig one up for you?
I’m not so sure Miriam Rivkin’s grandson likes girls. He might work.”
“Grandma!”
“What?” she asked. “You think I was always such a good girl when I was young? No, you get this from me, not that mother of yours.” She shuffled to the door. “Wash your face before bed. It ages your skin to sleep in makeup.” She patted her own cheeks. “That’s why I look so young.”
I shook my head as she closed the door behind her. She was too much. But it felt good knowing I had help in my corner.