Wanted Page 11

  I knew that Flynn didn't get my fascination. Monet, Rembrandt, even Ivan Albright's dark and brooding images were the things that captured his imagination. But to his credit he stood by my side, watching me as much as I was watching the windows.

  "You know you're not going to find an answer in the glass," he said after we'd been standing there for well over half an hour.

  "I might," I countered. I turned to look at him. "Maybe I already have."

  "Yeah? What are you going to do?"

  I shrugged, not sure how to put into words all the thoughts that had been bouncing around in my head as I'd stood there in my private meditation. The blue sky. The images that floated through an eternity, soaring but never falling. Evan's voice telling me to let go. To fly.

  And my own fears holding me back.

  But when you got right down to it, what did I have to lose?

  "I'm going to go for it," I finally said, boiling all my thoughts down to their utmost simplicity.

  "Well, look at you. Angelina's getting her groove."

  "Don't be an ass."

  "I'm not. Seriously. I'm proud of you. The guy wants you. You've wanted him since forever. So make your move. Tell him that he's an idiot for keeping a promise to a dead man. All he's doing is punishing you and giving himself blue balls. And if he sticks to his guns then he's an idiot and doesn't deserve you anyway."

  "Exactly."

  He hooked his arm through mine. "Come on. We'll hit American Modern on our way up to three, then I'll buy you a glass of wine at Terzo Piano."

  "We just had breakfast."

  "And your point is?"

  I had to concede I didn't have one. After all, it was past noon and even though it was a Thursday, neither one of us was working today.

  Besides, a little afternoon buzz might give me just the courage I needed.

  nine

  Before my weekly museum jaunts with Flynn, I used to come regularly to the Art Institute with Jahn. He'd loved the place as much as I did, so much so that he'd donated both art and money to the museum through the Jahn Foundation, a nonprofit organization that he'd founded and that he personally ran. It was his passion--finding artists who needed funding or institutions that needed cash in order to acquire or a restore a masterpiece or an ancient manuscript--and on more than one occasion I'd ended up in Jahn's office late into the evening, listening as he discussed his plans and choices with me. It wasn't officially part of my job, but those hours were always the highlight of my workday.

  As Flynn and I wandered through all our favorite galleries, I couldn't fight the wave of melancholy knowing that'd I'd never do this with Jahn again. But this time it was mixed with a bit of pride, too, because I knew that Jahn's generosity had made some of these exhibits--and others like them all across the world--possible. And when you got down to it, that was pretty cool.

  We'd made it past the iconic American Gothic and had moved on to Ivan Albright's rather creepy The Door when my phone started singing "I'm Just a Bill" from Schoolhouse Rock. I grinned at Flynn, then snatched it up, turning away from the strange, disturbing image before me. "Daddy!" I kept my voice low and took a few steps back from the painting. "Are you back in the States?"

  "Not only are we back in the U.S., we're in Chicago."

  "Really? Where? Are you at the condo?"

  They're here? Flynn mouthed.

  "Not at the condo," my dad said as I nodded to Flynn. "Your mother insisted on a hotel. Too many memories."

  "What hotel?"

  "The Drake. We're only staying the night, though. I need to be back in D.C. by noon tomorrow."

  "Tomorrow?" I frowned, wondering if I'd somehow gotten my dates mixed up. "We're meeting the attorney tomorrow to go over Uncle Jahn's will. Aren't you coming?"

  "I'm not a beneficiary."

  "Oh." I couldn't imagine why Jahn wouldn't have included his brother in his will. Technically they were half-brothers, but my dad had been three when Jahn was born, and they'd always been close. "Oh," I repeated stupidly.

  "You mother made a reservation at the Palm Court for tea. We'll see you here at three?"

  "I'll be there." I loved high tea, and The Drake was one of my favorite places in Chicago. Most of all, though, I just wanted to see my mom and dad.

  I ended the call, then caught up with Flynn. He'd moved on to another painting, equally unsettling. A woman, Ida, slavishly dressed, her skin lumpy and discolored, her face drawn and sad. I looked at it and the other paintings nearby, each done in a similar style that showed all the ugly underpinnings of life. All the nastiness.

  That's what I didn't like about the Albright images, of course. They made me remember that sometime, when I least expected it, someone was going to see all the way through my layers to my dirty little secrets, too.

  I shuddered. "Come on," I said to Flynn. "Let's get out of here."

  We skipped the drink--I didn't have time if I was going to make it to The Drake by three. "You want to come with?" I asked, certain my parents wouldn't mind.

  "Tea and tiny sandwiches and prissy harp music? Not to mention your parents grilling me about why I didn't bother with the college thing? No, thank you. Besides, if you're booked for the rest of the day, I may see if I can pick up the afternoon shift at the pub."

  I nodded, feeling a little guilty. Now that I'd moved out, I knew that money was tight. "Have you found a roommate? I know Kat's been thinking about moving into the city."

  "I think you're about the only one I'd be willing to share a one-bedroom apartment with," he said.

  "Are you going to have to move?" Now I really did feel guilty.

  "Nope. I've got it worked out."

  I paused as we reached the main lobby. "Really?"

  "What? I don't look like a guy who knows how to make a buck?"

  "Did you get a raise?"

  He grinned. "You're looking at a man with green flowing in."

  "Good for you," I said, taking that as a yes.

  We hurried outside, blinking in the sunlight, and Flynn hailed a taxi for me. I gave him a hug, double-checked that he didn't want a lift at least as far as the hotel, and then gave the driver my destination.

  He pulled out in the Michigan Avenue traffic and I settled back. The Magnificent Mile stretched out ahead of us, and I sighed, half-wishing I could tell the driver to just drive, drive, drive until I was certain that I'd stop stumbling over every bump in my life.

  I loved The Drake and I loved my parents, but I knew damn well that seeing them was going to bring everything back.

  Each day since Jahn died was getting a little easier. But then I'd turn a corner and it would be hard again. I'd catch the scent of his cologne. Or hear his name unexpectedly.

  Or maybe I'd see the tears in my mother's eyes.

  I closed my own eyes and drew in a calming breath. This was one of those corners, and I needed to steel myself to get past it. To be strong for my parents, who'd always been strong for me.

  The outside of The Drake has a sort of art deco vibe that I love. I could imagine girls in flapper dresses hanging out in the Roaring Twenties, much to the delight of the stuffy businessmen who were secretly thrilled to see so much leg and so much cleavage.

  But while the outside got my imagination humming, it was the inside of The Drake that took my breath away. It didn't scream elegance. It simply was elegant. A massive staircase leading up to a beautiful floral arrangement that was flanked on either side by stunning chandeliers. That was all you could see until you climbed those stairs and entered the fairyland.

  I did that now, pausing at the top of the stairs to turn and face the magnificence of the Palm Court. My parents had first brought Grace and me here when I was seven and she was ten, and I'd been certain that we must secretly be royalty. The entire room glowed white, from the drapes on the columns to the upholstered chairs to the massive wash of flowers that seemed to bloom out of the fountain that was the centerpiece of the room.

  I took a moment to push down my memories, the
n headed toward the hostess stand. "I'm meeting my parents," I said, even as my mother rose from a table behind the fountain and waved at me.

  "The senator's table. Of course. I'll take you."

  I followed, amused. He might have been elected by California voters, but even in Illinois, my father was The Senator.

  "Sweetheart, you look tired." My mom engulfed me in a tight hug, then stood back and examined every inch of me.

  I shrugged, feeling seven all over again as I smoothed my sundress and straightened the sweater I'd worn to ward off the museum chill. "I'm okay," I said. "Just not sleeping that great. The funeral and all."

  I still remembered the look of horrified impotence in my mother's eyes when I'd told her about my nightmares after Gracie's death. I couldn't stand knowing that I was adding to what was already a terrible burden, and so the next time she'd asked, I'd lied and told her that the bad dreams had been a passing thing. Her relief had been palpable, and sacrificing the comfort of my mom's hugs and soothing words had been a small price to pay to see that burden, however small, lifted from her shoulders.

  "Where's Daddy?" I asked in an effort to change the subject.

  "We ran into the president of Trycor Transportation." She nodded across the room, where my father stood by a table chatting amiably with a silver-haired man and two young girls who were obviously his daughters. "He'll be back in a minute. In the meantime, you and I can order."

  Our table was far enough from the fountain and the harpist that we could easily hear each other. We ordered high tea and Earl Grey for all three of us, and then Mom dived into all the mundane life stuff. I settled back, comfortable with the warm familiarity of the conversation.

  "How is Flynn?" she asked. I gave her a run down of his flight and bartending schedule, and she made maternal tsk-tsk noises. "Tell him he needs to seriously consider going to college. He's too bright to simply ignore his education."

  I bit back a smile, remembering why Flynn had chosen not to join me at The Drake. "I'll tell him."

  "And why don't you and I take a trip home soon? We'll take some time, get a bit of relaxing in. Maybe even drive up the coast and go shopping."

  "La Jolla?" I asked, knowing that had to be what my mom meant by home. Though the Washington lifestyle had fit both she and my father like a glove, they hadn't moved there full-time. "I'd love it," I said truthfully. "But I've been away from work for more than a week now, and things are going to be crazy when I get back."

  "I'm sure we can work it out," she said dismissively, as if whatever issues I might have at work weren't even worth bothering about. She lifted an arm, her smile bright. "Here comes Daddy."

  I stood up and folded myself in my father's arms, and the comfort I found there was enough to make me forget my mother's weirdness.

  To my parents' credit, we didn't talk about Uncle Jahn or the funeral or the will. They seemed to innately know that I needed space. That I just needed them, and so we talked about Mom's fund-raising and the various charitable organizations she worked with and the most recent legislation that Daddy was pushing and how well his new aide was working out.

  As we'd been talking, the waitstaff had come with our tea and food, and now I took the final scone, slathering its sugared top with clotted cream before taking a not-very-ladylike bite.

  As I did, my mom and dad exchanged a glance.

  "What?" I said, afraid I was about to get called out for bad manners. "Did I do something?"

  "I mentioned my new aide," my father said. "That reminded me of something I wanted to talk to you about."

  "Reminded," I repeated. I wiped my mouth and took a sip of tea, then sat back and studied my father. He was not the kind of man who needed to be reminded of anything, and I realized with sudden insight that whatever he was about to say was the reason they'd come to Chicago in the first place. "Okay. I'm listening."

  "Do you remember Congressman Winslow?"

  I shook my head slowly. "No."

  For the briefest of moments, my dad looked irritated. "Well, he remembers you. He's serving his second term in Washington now, but before that he was in Sacramento with me. And every year he was one of the faculty at the legislative summer camp that your sister used to go to. He was even her mentor when she did the youth ambassador program."

  "Oh." I nodded as if this all made sense. But from what I could tell so far, it was my sister the congressman remembered, and not me. "So what is the congressman up to?"

  "Quite a bit, actually. He's definitely a man to watch on the Hill. But most recently, he's hired himself a new legislative aide." He grinned at me, but I just shook my head, confused. "You, Angie." He leaned over and captured me in a hug, then released me so that my mom could repeat the process from my other side.

  "Wait. Me?" I asked, when the hugs and kisses were over. "How can I be his aide? I've never even met him."

  "It took some maneuvering," my dad said. "But he's also a Northwestern grad, and knows just how competitive your poli sci degree is. And I don't think it hurt that you beat out his GPA by a hair, too."

  "It's exactly the kind of position you want, sweetie," my mom said.

  I nodded automatically. The truth was, I didn't have a clue what I really wanted; I'd never let myself think too long about it. But they were right. It was what I'd worked toward. It was what I'd gone to college for.

  Most important, it was what Gracie had wanted.

  "It's the perfect position for a young woman starting out," my father said.

  "It sounds great, Daddy. But I'm not sure if it would be right to leave Chicago so soon after Uncle Jahn's death."

  His face tightened. "You do what you have to do, of course. But you should know that there's a lot of opportunity for growth. A congressman who's not only on the public's radar, but has the ear of the White House, too. I promise you, baby, your climb will track his--and your mother and I will be beside you all the way."

  My father reached out and took my hand and if I didn't know him better I would have sworn his eyes got misty. "I love you, Angelina," he said, and my heart twisted both because I knew it was true, and also because of what he had left unspoken: You're all I have left.

  I turned down my father's offer to have his hired driver give me a lift home. I'd told him I wanted to do some shopping, but mostly I just wanted to be alone. To walk and to think.

  I'd wanted to tell my dad that I wasn't ready to move to Washington. That even though public relations wasn't my thing, there were parts of my current job I found fascinating. And wasn't that what being in your twenties was about? Exploring all those options?

  But then I thought of Gracie, who'd probably known in utero that politics was her calling. I could still remember the long conversations she'd have with Daddy at the kitchen table, while I'd nod seriously and pretend to understand, trying desperately to think of one clever thing that would make my dad look at me with the same light that he'd shined on Grace.

  Then she'd died, and it had broken my heart to think that the light inside my dad would die with her. Except it hadn't faded, because I'd saved it. Maybe I couldn't save Gracie. Maybe I couldn't bring her back. But I'd signed up for student council. I'd joined the debate team. I'd completed a summer internship in Sacramento. I'd gone to Northwestern to major in political science.

  And I'd kept that light inside my dad alive.

  That was a small price to pay for not following my own dreams, right? Especially when I didn't know what those dreams were in the first place.

  I was walking fast down Michigan Avenue, my feet moving in time with my churning thoughts. I dodged tourists and buskers and forced myself to focus on the faces of passing strangers and the overpriced clothes that filled the shop windows. Anything to turn off my thoughts.

  It wasn't working, and so I walked even faster, so that all my mental energy was bound up by speed and the need to watch where I was going so I didn't mow down another pedestrian. I needed to get out of my own head. To erase all thoughts of the way Evan bailed o
n me and the way my father was navigating a path through my life.

  A familiar antsy feeling--edgy and raw--pressed hard against me. I told myself that I could handle this. I didn't need a rush; I just needed to get home. Avoid the stores, keep my focus, and don't do anything stupid.

  By the time I reached the condo lobby, my hair was a frizzy mess, my muscles ached, I felt sticky with sweat, and my stomach was actually rumbling. So much for the staying power of scones and tiny sandwiches. But at least I'd sort of pulled myself together.

  Peterson was in the foyer when I stepped off the elevator and into the penthouse. "Mr. Warner is waiting for you on the patio. Shall I make the two of you an early dinner?"

  I shook my head, feeling at loose ends all over again. My stomach twisted in knots, and eating was the last thing on my mind. "How long has he been here?"

  "About an hour. I told him I wasn't sure when you'd be back, but he asked to wait. He said he had some reading to catch up on and would enjoy sitting on the patio. I hope that isn't a problem."

  "It's fine," I lied. And then, though I really just wanted to turn around and leave again, I steeled myself and headed for the spiral staircase that led up and to the outside. I pushed through the glass door, then paused. I'd just walked home, so I already knew the weather was crisp and clear. But up here, it seemed even more so. From where I stood, I could see part of the lake through the glass barrier, and the sun was making the surface sparkle and the white sailboats shine. Had it only been last night that I'd looked out upon a field of stars with Evan's voice in my ear promising to take me there?

  I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath and forcing myself to shake off the memory before I turned to the left and walked to the covered area. I found Kevin on a wrought-iron love seat near the outdoor kitchen area. He had a document in his hand, a folio open beside him, and his laptop on the coffee table. A glass of white wine sat next to the computer, and I had to frown; Kevin didn't usually drink during working hours.

  "Hey," I said, going to the little fridge and grabbing myself a Diet Coke before sitting in the chair opposite him. He didn't look up from the document he was reading. I crossed my legs and sat back, then popped the top on my drink. The sound of the carbonation bursting free was like a small explosion and made me jump--and that only pissed me off. I felt edgy and uncomfortable, and considering I lived here and he didn't, my discomfort was all the more annoying.