Impulse. Lass Small

was considered one of the country’s most brilliant campaign advisors. A lot of gimmicks were attributed to him. The handwritten notes whose ink actually smeared. The shirtsleeves and loosened tie with suit coat carried over one shoulder with the left fingers holding it— leaving the right hand free to shake any hand.

      The coat over the shoulder was attributed to Sinatra’s long-ago album cover, as Mr. Allen pointed out. Although, before then, his candidates had used it— for a time.

      By now the folksy, shirtsleeved bit had been so overused, and used so awkwardly and with such calculation, that no Allen-advised candidate touched such a cliché.

      Any Allen campaign pattern was so quickly copied that he allowed others to take credit for them, because by then he’d gone on to better ideas. The senior Allen didn’t like to be coupled with ideas that were past their time. The only thing he pointed to— with clients— was who had used him and how many had won.

      So, naturally, there was the question as to how many of those who won had beaten better men? Whose side to take was faced with every potential client.

      The preliminaries for the decision was Amy’s job. It turned on who was the client, his reputation and how he reacted to her.

      She probed as to what sort of people were around the candidate and what were his goals.

      There had been potential clients who’d been turned down who had won. And there were good men Allen had accepted as clients who’d lost. No one won them all.

      So what would her dad do with Harry A. Habbison? Something ought to be done with that double H. Her father might shun such a gimmick. Honest And Honest? Double H for double Honor?

      The man was honorable. She’d stake her judgment on that one, but he was peculiarly unpalatable. However, the H.A.H. might be used by the opposition as the derisive sound, hah! Maybe they shouldn’t draw attention to his initials.

      What was Chas’s full name? Now there was a man who would tempt any woman to vote for him. Chas, the dominant male wolf.

      A woman always wants the best man around. And there was the warrior in Chas which would inspire men to believe in him. Ah, to have Chas for a candidate client. All they would have to do would be to put him on television and ask him to say his name and what he wanted.

      Amy really didn’t care what he wanted. She wanted him. She wanted to talk to him, and have him look at her, smile at her, to reach out, put his hand on her nape and draw her to him. Yes.

      It was getting quite cool with her balcony door open. Why would she stand there, in the cool wet darkness, dreaming about a man who hadn’t even looked at her?

      He was probably a loyal husband with six kids. Any wife of his would willingly have six kids for that man. She...well, no, she wasn’t having his children. She simply wanted an affair, if he was single.

      She was going to try. Tomorrow she would contrive to meet Sally and introduce herself as a long-lost cousin. And after that, it would only be a matter of time before she met Chas. The impulse was a little heady, and she felt a strong recklessness. It would be an adventure.

      Two

      Amy had gone to bed so early that she wakened at a completely uncivilized time on Thursday. The morning’s gray sky was still dripping. With the balcony door open, the air smelled fresh and cool like San Francisco’s fog.

      Instead of using one of the beds in the bedroom, Amy had opened out the sleeper sofa in the living room and slept there, snug and warm under a fleecy blanket.

      She stretched and stretched and yawned before she lay peacefully in an unusual indulgence. She’d heard there were actually people who wakened before they got up. She could get used to it.

      Her empty stomach indicated it was hungry. She could easily eat there in her suite, from her stocked supplies. However, the time factor made utilization of The Relative Plan rather urgent.

      It would be wiser to go down to one of the dining rooms for breakfast in order to begin her deception. Did they serve this early? Would any of the wedding party even be up?

      Amy sat up and swung her legs off the sofa bed, then stood and stretched as she enjoyed just doing that. Going down the suite’s hall into the bedroom, she looked at her wardrobe. She’d have to get some more things from her car.

      She flicked through the few things hanging there and pulled out a shockingly expensive jogging suit. She’d bought it because the color matched her blue eyes exactly, and it beat utilitarian gray bulk all hollow.

      Amy surveyed herself. She did not look like a serious athlete.

      Her headband was an old one from her father. It bore the label McMahon, for the ex-quarterback of the Chicago Bears. She picked up a purple-hooded sweat jacket, put her door card in the back pocket of her pants and went down to the breakfast room.

      Quite a few people were there! What were all these people doing up at such an ungodly hour?

      There was a hum of conversation in the room, and the waiters moved around. There was the clink of plates and rustle of people.

      Then Amy realized most of the diners were wedding guests. In her quick scan, she didn’t see Chas. But she did see those present were dressed in a wide range of casual sports clothing, and her impulsive sports buy wasn’t beyond reason.

      She chose a seat within earshot of Sally, the redheaded bride-to-be, in order to pick up on any mention of their Aunt...was it Tilly? No, it was Trilby. Their “relative in common.”

      Amy noted that Sally wore a deliciously baggy old gray utilitarian sweat suit. Sally could wear a barrel and still be a knockout. Amy was glad Sally was getting married. Chas’s cousin or not, Amy wanted Sally out of the way.

      Looking over the menu, Amy threw caution to the wind and ordered a monster breakfast. Eggs with an S, pancakes, trout, bacon, strawberries and tea. And she ate it as she listened only to the table next to hers.

      The bride said, “The dresses haven’t arrived.”

      The woman with Sally soothed her. “They’ll get here. Don’t panic.”

      “The wedding is Saturday! The day after tomorrow! I don’t want to get married in this sweat suit.”

      “You have that green dress.”

      “I used to wear it with Frank.”

      “Well? So?”

      “Every time I wear that dress, I think of Frank, and even you will have to admit I can’t marry Tad while I’m thinking about Frank.”

      “Why don’t you give it to the League’s Second Chance Boutique?”

      “It looks terrific on me.” Sally’s voice was deliberately mild in her acceptance of looking great.

      “I have to agree to that. Did I ever tell you I once stole it? But when I put it on, it looked like a dishrag on me, so I put it back.”

      “The color is wrong for you. You have a great figure.”

      “It was too tight.”

      “So that’s when it happened! Do you know I had to mend that seam?”

      “Old Simmy would have been proud of you!” Sally’s companion exclaimed as she laughed. Then she asked, “Where is Tad?”

      “He and Chas went on a soggy jog.”

      “Chas is probably having to tell Tad what marriage means.”

      “Tad knows.”

      The other woman chuckled in a very amused way.

      Then Sally said, “There she is!” And from the corner of her eyes, Amy saw Sally straighten and lift a hand up just above her head. She rose in welcome as another woman, in a traveling suit, came to the table to