"Despite my strong recommendation, the senator's still undecided. More of a budgeting problem than any difficulty with your qualifications.
" He unfolded the piece of paper in his hand and passed it to her.
"But we need to figure out how to respond when he sees this." We?
Gin thought. Since when are we a we?
She looked at the sheet and suppressed a groan. It was a Xerox of an article she'd written for the New Orleans TimesPicayvne during the second year of her residency. She'd been in a particularly grouchy mood after reading that paper's series on what was wrong with American medicine. She'd fired off a long letter vehemently disagreeing with their delineation of the problems and the proposed solutions. The paper told her if she'd expand it they'd publish it as an op-ed piece.
Giddy with the prospect of having an audience, Gin had fired all her guns, sparing no one. It was a diatribe Duncan himself would have been proud of.
But . . . a very negative, even strident article, with no attempt at a balanced argument, and she'd cringed when she'd reread it on the day it was published. If only she'd put it in a drawer for a week before sending it in, she certainly would have leavened some of her remarks.
She hadn't given it much thought since, and yet here it was, resurrected and staring her in the face.
"This isn't really me, " she said.
"I'm sure it isn't." Blair touched her hand solicitously. "But we've got to do some brainstorming to assess our options if it reaches the senator's desk." She backed up an inch and his hand broke contact.
There it was again, we.
"What do you suggest? " "Oh, " he said so casually, "how about my place? Tonight. And wear something nice." Gin felt her hands close into fists. She wanted to ram one of them into his nose, and then yank out that wimpy mustache one hair at a time
"Sorry, " she said calmly, moving her jaw so she wouldn't be talking through gritted teeth. "I've got plans for tonight."
"Tomorrow night, then. We haven't much time" We have no time
She regarded him coolly, levelly. "Nope. Sorry. I'm busy. Tonight, tomorrow night, every night. ' He stared back at her, obviously confused. Then his eyes narrowed, but only for a second. He shrugged carelessly and turned away.
"Okay, " he said over his shoulder. "Your loss. But don't say I didn't offer to help."
"I won't, " she said softly as she stretched a trembling finger toward the DOWN button.
She dammed up the rage and humiliation as she waited. It wasn't supposed to be like this, wasn't supposed to work this way.
The car finally came, the doors closed behind her and the box began its slow fall. Alone, sealed off, she wanted to scream, wanted to sob.
She did neither. She wiped a single tear from her right eye and whispered one word.
"Damn." She found Gerry waiting for her in the atrium. She forced a smile and hoped her eyes weren't red.
"What are you doing here? " "Waiting for you. What else? " He looked good. Even at the end of a workday with a little five-o'clock shadow stippling his cheeks, he looked damn good. But the excitement Gin had felt the last couple of times they were together was missing today.
She didn't want to be with anyone now.
"But how did you know? " "You told me. Remember? On the phone?
Maybe five hours ago? " "Oh. Right." Her mind wasn't working too well at the moment.
"So how about a drink? " A polite demurral began in her throat but she held it back. She'd been injured and her instincts urged her to retreat to a corner and be alone.
But that was what Pasta would have done.
"Sure. I'd love one."
"Great. I know just the place. We'll take a shortcut." He took her arm and led her toward the rear of the Hart Building. "A celebratory drink, I hope."
"No, " she said slowly.
"I'm afraid not."
"You're kidding. Whar, ? ' "I"II tell you about it." * * * Gerry clenched and unclenched his fists under the table as Gin told her story.
They sat at an isolated table near the window. He'd broughr her to the Sommelier, a little wine bar on Mass, because he'd learned that she preferred wine to liquor, and had a fondness for Italian reds.
Gerry preferred Irish sipping whiskey, preferably Black Bush. But if wine was the only thing, he usually toughed it out with white zinfandel.
No wine snob he.
He could see Gin was hurt. She spoke softly, almost matter-offactly, over her glass of valpolicella, swirling then sipping it, swirling and sipping. Her voice was steady, as were her hands, she looked perfectly composed. But Gerry sensed the pain.
As his mood darkened, he wished he hadn't brought her here. The gleaming surfaces of the polished brass and chrome and marble of the Sommelier were too clean, too bright for the story she told. They should have been in a seedy cocktail lounge.
No. This was better. Clean and shiny suited her. Here it was only the third time they'd been together and already he was feeling protective.
And so attracted. He hadn't felt this way since college, when he and Karen had started dating and getting serious. A good, warm feeling.
Thoughts of Gin were beginning to intrude on his work. He'd find himself thinking about her at the most inconvenient times, wondering what she was doing, wondering if she was thinking about him.
And now he was sharing her anger, her anguish. She had expected better of a U. S. senator's office. She deserved better.
Sometimes he hated this goddamn town.
"That's the way it is here, " he told her after she finished. "Not just with you. With everything. It's a mindset."
"So I shouldn't take it personally? ' Her eyes flashed. "Is that what you're saying?
" . "Yes and no, " he said slowly. Had to choose his words carefully here. He didn't want to wind up a lightning rod for that anger. "You should be offended, angry, even feel humiliated, but realize too that Blair is simply doing what comes naturally on the Hill. He's just playing by the rules as he's learned them." '"Hill rat, " she said, shaking her head. "Boy, if ever a term fit someone. But aren't there laws, ? " "Yeah, probably written by the Hill rats themselves, and passed by their bosses. But for other people, for the constituents.
They don't apply up here on the Hill. You've entered an ethical Twilight Zone."
"You seem so casual about it." Was he? Was she right? Had he been investigating political corruption long enough to take it for granted?
Maybe. He didn't like that answer.
But he wasn't talking about blatant graft here. No, it was more of an atmosphere, an ambience. A different set of values.