The Kingmaker

39

Lennix

“Are you sure about this?” Wallace asks, the question in his voice reflected in his expression.

“I told you a dozen times that tie is fine,” I say, reaching up to adjust the knot. “But good Lord, when I gave it to you I never thought you’d mangle it. Where’d you learn to tie these? The Boy Scouts? This tie is Armani and you made it look like I picked it up at the five-and-dime.”

“Not the damn tie, Lenny.” Wallace grabs my hand and pulls it away from his neck. “Me coming with you to this campaign thing.”

“Of course.” I slide my glance to the perfectly manicured bushes flanking the front porch of Owen Cade’s townhouse. “They said we could bring someone.”

“Someone? Like a random friend?”

“Random?” I overstretch my eyes and mouth with outrage. “You’re not random. You are the most on-purpose friend I have. Joe’s bringing Erin.”

“They’re married.”

“Howard’s bringing Bill.”

“They’re married.” He points to himself. “I’m not your husband.”

“Not for lack of trying on your part.” I grin up at him. “Come on, Wall. I neeeeeed you.”

“I’m your beard, aren’t I?” he asks, suspicion and realization lighting his eyes. “You’re betting Maxim Cade will leave you alone if he thinks you’re taken.”

“Exactly.” My smile comes and goes, then I shake my head. “No! I mean, no. Not at all.”

He dips his head and looks at me knowingly.

“Okay. Maybe a little.” I put my hands over my ears. “Stop looking at me so loud.”

“If you expect Maxim to believe you’re an old married couple,” Kimba says from the bottom of the steps, “your bickering will convince him.”

“Would you shut up?” I hiss, looking at the bushes like they might be bugged.

“Also that startling lack of sexual chemistry you two got going on?” Kimba points between us. “Reeks of trudging through matrimony.”

“Can we please just put on our big girl panties and show Senator Cade why we’re the best in the business?” I ask.

“I’m already wearing my big girl panties, honey,” Kimba says, practically gliding up the steps. “They’re La Perla.”

“I’m not comfortable at all with this turn of conversation,” Wallace mumbles. “I’ve been telling myself, ‘Wall, you need male friends.’ Too many girls.”

“Shut it. You love us.” Kimba reaches up to hug Wallace around the neck. “How the heck are ya, Wall? Welcome to paradise. Good to have you in D.C. Congrats on the promotion.”

“Thanks,” Wallace says, returning her hug.

“Now if we could persuade your sister to accept a promising opportunity every once in a while,” I interject. “Who leaves the LA Times on the table?”

“That was a decade ago, Lenn,” Kimba says. “You still riding Viv about that?”

“I’m not riding her about what happened ten years ago,” I say. “Not when we only have to go back a year to her turning down a great assignment in Paris.”

“She was pregnant with Madison,” Wallace reminds me. “Please don’t begrudge me my niece, Mary Tyler Moore.”

“Mary Tyler Moore?” I ask, not connecting any dots.

“Yes, Mary Tyler Moore,” Wallace says patiently, like we should know this. “Career woman from the seventies. Threw the hat up in the air in New York.”