From the Heart (53 page)

“Do you know, I believe we will.” Liv shook her head. “I'm sorry to say we can't all be Woodwards and Bernsteins. But I suppose all reporters run into a fat story now and again. Right now, the heat is on Senator Donahue's filibuster.”

“Ah, Michael.” Myra smiled, then nodded with approval as Liv's sherry was set in front of her. “Feisty old devil. I've always been fond of him. Nobody rhumbas like Michael Donahue.”

Liv nearly choked on her sherry. “Is that so?”

“I shall have to introduce you next month when I give my Spring Ball. You do rhumba, don't you, dear?”

“I'll learn.”

Myra smiled in her dazzling way, then crocked a finger at the waiter. “I, unfortunately, will have to make do with the fruit salad. My dressmaker's sighing horribly these days.” She gave Liv a wistful glance that wasn't envious so much as reminiscent. “The scampi's exquisite here.”

“Fruit salad will do nicely,” Liv returned. “Being able to sit down for lunch is treat enough. I still have to thank you for asking me,” Liv went on, as the waiter moved away. “It really isn't often I have the opportunity to have an hour like this in the middle of the day.”

“But of course you can justify the luxury by terming it as partly business.” Myra laughed at Liv's expression. “Oh, no, my dear, you mustn't think it offends me. Why not in the least. It's actually part of my intention. Now . . .” She leaned forward a bit like a general preparing to outline a plan of attack. “You must tell me what special project you have in mind. I know you must have one; it's simply in your character.”

Liv sat back. Though she held the glass of sherry, she didn't drink. She was too enthralled with the woman across from her. “Myra, I believe you would have made a fabulous reporter.”

A pleased pink flush spread on her cheeks. “Do you really? How marvelous. I do so love to nose around, you know.”

“Yes,” Liv answered faintly.

“So.” Myra spread her hands, palms up. “Tell me what you have in mind.”

Liv shook her head and smiled. “All right. I've been toying with trying a news special, probably slotted for late night. A personal view of women in politics. Not only women politicians, but women married to politicians. How they deal with the stress business—family, public exposure, traveling. I'd like to think I could deal with both sides of the coin that way. Women who are immersed in government for varying reasons.”

“Yes . . .” Myra pouted in thought. “That might prove quite interesting. It can be the very devil on a marriage, you know. The campaigning, the staff dinners, the state dinners, the protocol. Lengthy separations, high pressure. It's a horse race, my dear. One long, never ending horse race. And the women . . .” She smiled again and swirled her sherry. “Yes, indeed, it might be interesting.”

“I've been knocking it around with Carl for a couple of months. He's the news director,” Liv explained. “I think he'd go for it, if and when I can give him an outline and some firm names. I suppose seeing Amelia Thaxter at the embassy started the wheels turning again.”

“A remarkable woman,” Myra commented. She smiled, somewhat dismally, as the fruit salad was placed in front of her. She wasn't the sort of woman who liked moderation, even gastronomically. “As dedicated as they come, and quite devoted to her constituents. Quite sincerely devoted. She made a choice between marriage and a career long ago. Some women can't mix the two.” She smiled at Liv then and plunged her fork into a chunk of pineapple. “Oh, I'm not talking out of school. She'd tell you herself if asked. I believe she'll be quite interested in your project. Yes, and Margerite Lewellyn—nothing she likes better than to talk about herself. Then there's Barbara Carp . . .”

Liv listened, not touching her own lunch as Myra rattled off names of women political figures and the wives of some of Washington's top brass. This was a great deal more than she had expected. And as she spoke, Myra became more animated with the idea.

“What fun,” she concluded. “I believe you'll do a marvelous job of it. I think I'll make a few phone calls when I get back.”

“I appreciate it,” Liv began, hardly knowing what to say. “Really I—”

“Oh, fiddle.” Myra waved away the thanks with her fork. “It sounds a great deal more fun than planning another dinner party. Besides”—she gave Liv another of those blinding smiles—“I fully expect to be interviewed myself.”

“That is an opportunity I wouldn't miss for the world,” Liv said sincerely. “Myra,” Liv said, and applied herself to her own salad, “you are amazing.”

“I do try to be. Now, that's all the business nicely settled.” She gave a self-satisfied sigh. She liked this girl. Oh, yes, she liked this girl very much. And when Myra Ditmyer made up her mind about someone, it was as firm as one of her husband's court decisions. “I must tell you, I had no idea when I made that little arrangement about the bridge party that you and Greg knew each other. I love being surprised.”

“He was a very good friend.” Liv poked at her salad. “Seeing him again was good for me.”

Myra watched her carefully. “I said I was surprised. But then . . .” She saw Liv's eyes rise to hers. “It didn't take me long to put the pieces together. When he was in college, Greg had written me often about Livvy. I remember hoping he was enjoying a nice, sweet romance. He was certainly captivated by her.”

“Myra, I—”

“No, no, now, let me finish. Greg was always a faithful correspondent. So refreshing in a young man. He wrote me that his Livvy was involved with his roommate.”

“It was all so long ago.”

“My dear.” Myra placed a hand on hers. “I apologize. But Greg was very intimate in his letters. I suppose he needed a sounding board for his feelings. They were quite real to him at the time. He was desperately in love with you, and as close to Doug as a man can be to another. Being in the middle was difficult for him, and perhaps because I was removed, he talked to me through his letters. He told me everything.”

The look, the press of the hand, told Liv that Myra was
being literal. There must be nothing about those years that she didn't know. Liv stared at her helplessly.

“Now, dear, have some more wine. I don't mean to upset you. We all learn to cope, don't we,” she went on in an easy voice as Liv obeyed her. “To live with loss and pain and disappointment. One can't have lived to my age and not have run the gamut. It must have been dreadful for you. You probably thought you'd never live through it.”

“No,” Liv murmured. “No, I was sure I wouldn't.”

“But you have.” Myra patted her hand again, leaned back and waited.

Perhaps it was Myra's skill in dealing with people, perhaps her genuine interest in them that caused Liv to respond to Myra's silence more than she would have to a dozen well-meaning questions.

“I thought for a while it would be better to die than to have to live with the pain. There didn't seem to be anybody . . . . My family,” she said on a long breath. “I suppose they tried; in their way they were sympathetic, but . . .” She stopped and let out a quiet sigh that tugged at Myra's heart. “I wanted to scream; I wanted to tear something apart. Anything. They simply never understood that kind of need. A person's grief, a person's private torment should be just that. Private. It should be handled with dignity.”

“Poppycock,” Myra said rudely. “When you're hurt, you cry, and the hell with anyone who doesn't like to see tears.”

Liv laughed. “I believe I could have used you then. I might not have made such a botch of things.”

“It's entirely your own opinion that you did,” Myra said sternly. “It might be time for you to give yourself a bit more credit. But, as I've said, you've lived through it, and this is today. Tell me about you and T.C.”

“Oh.” Liv looked down at her salad again in fresh bewilderment. What was there to say? She'd botched things again.

“I can hardly hold any hope that you and Greg will make a match of it.” She saw Liv smile at that and continued. “But as T.C.'s one of my favorite people, I've decided to be content with that.”

“I'm not ever going to marry again.”

“Oh, what boring nonsense,” Myra said good-naturedly. “T.C. and you have been seeing each other fairly regularly now, haven't you?”

“Yes, but . . .” Liv frowned a bit. Myra really had missed her calling.

“He's entirely too intelligent a man to let you slip through his fingers. I'd bet Herbert's prize golf clubs that he's already asked you to marry him.”

“Well, no. That is, he told me I was going to, but—”

“Much more in character,” Myra said, pleased. “Oh, yes, that's just like him. And, of course, that got your back up.”

“He was so unbearably arrogant,” Liv stated, remembering.

“And he loves you so dreadfully.”

That stopped her. She could only stare.

“Olivia, a blind man could have seen it that night at my little bridge game. And my eyesight's very keen. What are you doing about it?”

“I've . . .” Liv felt herself deflate like a pricked balloon. “I've ruined it. Last night.”

Myra studied her in silence a moment. Really, she thought, the child was so confused. Again she reached out to pat her hand. It was such a shame to see people waste time because they thought too much and acted too little.

“You know, unlike the maxim, life isn't short, Olivia; it's really terribly long.” She smiled at the serious eyes on her face. “But not nearly long enough. I've been married to Herbert for thirty-five years. If I had listened to my parents, bless them, and my own better sense, I would never have married a man who seemed too stuffy, who was too old for me and entirely too work oriented. Think of all I would have missed. Life,” she said positively, “is worth a few risks. To prove it,” she added and sat back, “I'm going to have some of that lemon mousse . . . .”

Even hours later, preparing for broadcast, Liv couldn't get Myra's words out of her mind. It was time to do something, she decided in the middle of the sportscaster's report. Time to stop mulling things over point by point. If she wanted to be with Thorpe, she was going to have to tell him so.

The moment her broadcast was over, Liv went upstairs. Seeing her approach, the receptionist gave a fatalistic sigh.

“He's not here,” she said, as she prepared to pack up her work for the day. “He's doing his report on location.”

“I'll wait in his office.” Liv breezed by before the other woman could comment.

What am I going to say to him? Liv asked herself the moment she shut the door behind her.
What can I say?
Pacing the room, she tried to find words.

It seemed odd to be there without him. The room was so much his. Scattered on one wall were pictures of him with various world leaders and government officials. He looked invariably relaxed—never stiff, never overawed. He was simply Thorpe, Liv mused. And that was enough. There were scrawled notes littering his desk, and a hefty pile of papers held down by a paperweight. She went to look out at his view of the city.

She could see the dome of the Capitol. With the sun beginning to set, it had a rosy hue, almost fairylike. Traffic was thick, but the heavy glass insulated her from the sound of it. She gazed out at the lines and circles of the streets, the old, stately buildings, the cherry blossoms just coming to bloom. It didn't have the movement or urgency of New York, she decided, but was beautiful in its way. Engrossed in her study, she never heard Thorpe come in.

Seeing her surprised him. He was uncustomarily thrown off-balance. He hesitated for a moment with his hand still on the knob. Very carefully, he shut the door at his back.

“Liv?”

She whirled, and he saw her expression range from surprise to pleasure to controlled anxiety. More than he had ever wanted anything, Thorpe wanted to take her into his arms and pretend the night had never happened.

“Thorpe.” At the sight of him, all her planned speeches flew out of her head. She stood rooted to the spot. “I hope you don't mind that I just came in.”

He lifted a brow and she saw it—the light mockery, the easy amusement. “Of course not. Want some coffee?”

He was so casual as he strolled over to the pot, she began
to wonder if she had imagined that less than twenty-four hours before he had told her he loved her. “No, I . . . I came by to see if you'd come to dinner,” she said impulsively. She could sense refusal and hurried on while his back was still to her. “Of course, I can't promise a meal like you could fix, but I won't poison you.”

Thorpe abandoned the making of coffee, and turned to face her. “Liv, I don't think it's a good idea,” he said quietly.

“Thorpe . . .” She turned away for a moment to gather strength. What she wanted to do was weep, and to use his shoulder to weep on. That wouldn't help either of them. She turned to face him again. “There are so many things you don't know, don't understand. But I want you to know, and to understand that I care. I care very much. Maybe more than I'm able to deal with.” He could hear the nerves rushing through her voice as she took a step toward him. “I know it's a tremendous thing to ask, but if you could just give me some time.”

It was costing her, he noted, to ask. Knowing her, he understood it had cost her to come to him this way. Hadn't he told himself to be patient? “I have some things to clear up here first,” he said. “Would it be all right if I came by in an hour or so?”

He heard her small expulsion of breath. “Good.”

 

An hour later, Liv was wound up tight. She tried to bank her nerves and concentrate on getting together a meal, but her eyes were forever fixing themselves on the clock.