Let Me Call You Sweetheart

43

Jonathan Hoover was not enjoying his predinner martini this evening. Usually he savored this time of day, sipping the smooth gin diluted with precisely three drops of vermouth and enhanced with two olives, sitting in his wing chair by the fire, conversing with Grace about the day.

Tonight, added to his own concerns, it was obvious that something was troubling Grace. If the pain was worse than usual he knew she would never admit it. They never discussed her health. Long ago he had learned not to ask more than a perfunctory, “How do you feel, dear?”

The answer was inevitably, “Not bad at all.”

The increasing rheumatic assault on her body did not prevent Grace from dressing with her innate elegance. Nowadays she always wore long loose sleeves to cover her swollen wrists and in the evening, even when they were alone, chose flowing hostess gowns that concealed the steadily progressing deformity of her legs and feet.

Propped up as she was, in a half-lying position on the couch, the curvature in her spine was not apparent, and her luminous gray eyes were beautiful against the alabaster white of her complexion. Only her hands, the fingers gnarled and twisted, were visible indicators of her devastating illness.

Because Grace always stayed in bed till midmorning, and Jonathan was an early riser, the evening was their time to visit and gossip. Now Grace gave him a wry smile. “I feel as though I’m looking in a mirror, Jon. You’re upset about something too, and I bet it’s the same thing that was bothering you earlier, so let me go first. I spoke to Kerry.”

Jonathan raised his eyebrows. “And?”

“I’m afraid she has no intention of letting go of the Reardon case.”

“What did she tell you?”

“It’s what she didn’t tell me. She was evasive. She listened to me, then said that she had reason to believe that Dr. Smith’s testimony was false. She did acknowledge that she had no concrete reason to believe that Reardon wasn’t the murderer, but she felt it was her obligation to explore the possibility that there might have been a miscarriage of justice.”

Jonathan’s face flushed to a deep, angry red. “Grace, there’s a point where Kerry’s sense of justice approaches the ludicrous. Last night I was able to persuade the governor to delay submitting to the senate the names of candidates for appointment to the bench. He agreed.”

“Jonathan!”

“It was the only thing I could do short of asking him to withhold Kerry’s appointment for the present. I had no choice. Grace, Prescott Marshall has been an outstanding governor. You know that. Working with him, I’ve been able to lead the senate in getting necessary reforms into law, in revising the tax structure, in attracting business to the state, in welfare reform that doesn’t mean depriving the poor while searching out the welfare cheats. I want Marshall back in four years. I’m no great fan of Frank Green, but as governor he’ll be a good benchwarmer and won’t undo what Marshall and I have accomplished. On the other hand, if Green fails, and if the other party gets in, then everything we’ve accomplished will be taken apart.”

Suddenly the intensity the anger had inspired drained from his face and he looked to Grace only very tired and every minute of his sixty-two years.

“I’ll invite Kerry and Robin to dinner Sunday,” Grace said. “That will give you another chance to talk sense to her. I don’t think anyone’s future should be sacrificed for that Reardon man.”

“I’m going to call her tonight,” Jonathan told her.