Private Indiscretions. Susan Crosby

interesting than Sam? “Okay.”

      “It’s going to take a while for me to get used to hearing you say that. Um, I take it you didn’t listen to the show today.”

      “I didn’t have time, why?”

      “Harley called in to the program.”

      Dana let that news sink in. Lilith hosted a Monday-through-Friday, commute-time, radio-advice show, Dr. Lilith. Her Ph.D. in psychology qualified her; her warm but no-nonsense personality made her a success, even though she was an ultraconservative living in a predominantly liberal city.

      “Something tells me he wasn’t looking for advice on his sex life,” Dana said. “Although he probably needs it.”

      “Meow.”

      Dana smiled. “Did he identify himself?”

      “Of course not. Coward that he is, he got on the air by telling my producer he had a question about how to help a woman lose her frigidity.”

      “He said that?”

      “Those words exactly. I started to ask him for more specifics, when he said that surely I knew who he was talking about—the princess of Prospector High School. Anyway, I’ll send over a tape to your office so you can hear it. He didn’t name you, but your bio says you graduated from there.”

      “How’d you shut him down?”

      “You’ll hear the tape. Dana, I don’t think he’s done. His ego is black and blue, and he’s an eye-for-an-eye man. Usually his money and power get him what he wants. You weren’t impressed. He doesn’t like that.”

      Lilith wasn’t aware of what had happened between Dana and Harley years ago, only that they’d had a confrontation. Sam knew because he’d been involved, but Dana hadn’t told anyone else except her parents, not even Randall. Like Sam, she buried bad memories.

      “Thanks for the warning,” Dana said. “I’ll think about how to handle it.”

      “Good. Can you be at our house by seven tomorrow night?”

      “If I can’t get away that early, I’ll let you know. As of now, it looks okay.”

      They said their goodbyes.

      Dana tried to work. She needed to review two reports her staff had put together before her meetings tomorrow but her eyes kept closing. Useless, she decided. Better to get some sleep and get up an hour earlier in the morning.

      She set her alarm for 4:00 a.m. then shoved her briefcase and paperwork to the other side of the bed. She would have turned out the light except that her gaze landed on an envelope sandwiched between an L.L.Bean catalog and a supermarket ad.

      She slid it free. The envelope had weight and texture much like a wedding invitation, yet no return address, just her name and address, typed in a calligraphy-style font, fancy and hard to read. A San Francisco postmark. Most people addressed her mail as Senator or The Honorable. On this envelope her name bore no title of any kind, not even Ms. She opened the flap, unfolded the single sheet of cream-colored vellum.

      If you run for reelection, I’ll make public everything I know about your saintly late husband.

      Four

      It was 3:00 a.m. before Sam arrived at his Santa Monica home, his mood as black as the sky. First, he’d forgotten about the valedictorian medal in his pocket until he set off the airport metal detector. Then the flight was delayed over an hour because of mechanical problems. After that, the car service didn’t show to pick him up and he had to take a cab home.

      As he paid the driver, he counted four newspapers scattered in his driveway, even though his neighbor had promised to pick them up daily. He dragged a hand down his face. One more thing to do before he flew back to San Francisco tomorrow night—cancel the paper. He was on the road too much now, anyway.

      He punched his code into the keyless entry panel then felt the cool welcome of home, his first real home, a 1920s Craftsman that suited his needs perfectly. Newly renovated and true to the original architectural style, the house had tugged at him from the first moment he saw it. The fact he could afford it still made him shake his head in wonder. The simple mission-style furniture was complemented by soothing Asian undertones and accent pieces he’d picked up in his travels. It would do until he could build the house of his dreams. He’d already designed it.

      Sam detoured into his office on the way to the bedroom. The message light on his answering machine flashed. He pressed the Playback button.

      “Hello, Sam, dear, it’s Rosa Giannini. I’m sorry to tell you that Ernie passed away this evening. One minute he was talking to me, then he closed his eyes and he was gone…. I’m trying to convince myself he’s in a better place, free of pain, but it’s…hard.”

      Sam squeezed his eyes shut at the catch in her voice and the grief-filled pause that followed.

      “The services will be on Saturday,” Rosa continued. “I understand if you can’t make it, though. He was so glad you came to see him last weekend. He loved you so much, Sam.” She was quiet a moment, then, “You probably think he was the one doing you favors through the years, but he needed you as much as you needed him. You were a blessing in his life, in our lives. I hope you know you’ll always be welcome here.”

      Again a pause. Sam stared at the ceiling and swallowed hard against the ache in his throat.

      “Don’t send flowers, dear. Do something that would make Ernie smile. You already made him proud. Stay in touch.”

      The scent of cherry pipe tobacco seemed to fill the room. Sam closed his eyes and saw his friend. Sweater vests and bow ties and shirts that lost their starch before the lunch bell. A fringe of salt-and-pepper hair that gave him an impish-monk look, especially when added to the Santa Claus belly. Sam heard his mentor’s dry chuckle, felt a grip on his shoulder, a squeeze of encouragement.

      How could he attend the funeral of the man he’d wished a thousand times was his father? How could he wear his grief openly for the person who’d made him believe in himself?

      He would send flowers, though, because he’d learned that simple things helped those left behind. And for himself as well as Rosa he would do something that would make his old friend smile.

      After another minute Sam’s bed beckoned, singing its siren song to his weary body and soul. His training wouldn’t let him go to bed without hanging up his suit and putting the rest of his clothes in the hamper. He slid under the sheets finally, closed his eyes and lay there for a few seconds before tossing the bedding aside and going to the closet. When he returned it was with his medal in hand.

      He’d earned it because of Ernest Giannini, then had turned his back on the honor, which was like turning his back on his teacher, diminishing, if not discounting, its—and his—importance.

      The medal meant something, Sam realized. He’d told Dana otherwise, but now he knew differently.

      He gripped it hard, felt it heat his hand and the edge dig into his palm.

      He needed to thank Dana for keeping the medal for him, for making him take it back. He’d not only been ungrateful but rude.

      He returned to his closet and came out with a small wooden chest, which he placed on his bed. He hesitated before opening the lid, as if the contents of Pandora’s box would fly out. Finally he pushed the lid up. Inside were ragged pieces of lined notebook paper torn into squares with words penciled on them, front and back. A question from him on one side, an answer from Dana on the other.

      He sifted through them, remembering. Their competition to be class valedictorian had started in ninth grade when teachers began to notice how often they asked and answered questions in class. Soon they were competing for the top scores on tests and papers, encouraged by their teachers. They ran neck and neck for all four years. It had come down to the last semester. He’d gotten an A in math; she’d gotten an A minus.