“There’s always an alternative.”
Spence’s rejoinder moved like a chill wind through the room.
“Jesus, Spence,” Merritt said. “You sound about as cheerful as a death knell. Forget Mr. Gloom and Doom over there, George,” he said, coming to his feet to shake hands with the physician. “Vanessa’s in your good hands, so I’m not going to worry. And thanks for explaining this Munchausen thing, although it was irrelevant to Robert’s death.”
Peering deeply into the doctor’s eyes, he added, “Robert stopped breathing in his crib. Explanation unknown. That was your official ruling, and you’re standing by it. Correct?”
“Absolutely. SIDS.” Dr. Allan finished his drink, then said his goodbyes.
“He’d better come through,” Spence remarked when he and the President were alone.
“Have no fear. He will.”
“But will Vanessa?”
“She always has, hasn’t she?”
“Before, yes. Now I’m not so sure she can pull herself together.” Only Spencer Martin could have spoken this frankly to the President about the First Lady.
While Merritt appreciated his top adviser’s concern, he thought it was disproportionate to the problem. “I stand by my decision. The public needed to see Vanessa do that interview, Spence. She looked great. Sounded great.”
Spence was still frowning. “Then why do I wish we’d never consented to it? I’m getting bad vibes. It bothers me that she made the initial contact with the reporter, not the other way around.”
“That bothered me, too, at first,” Merritt admitted. “But it turned out all right. It was good p.r. for her and for us. As George said, no harm was done.”
When Spence failed to reply, the President looked at him sharply.
“Well, we’ll see,” Spence said, in his foreboding way.
* * *
“All right, who is he?”
“Who?” Barrie didn’t even look up. In her lap was a pile of phone messages, cards, and letters from viewers, all relating to her SIDS series. In her most optimistic dreams, she’d never expected so great a response.
“You’re a sly one, Barrie, hiding this one from us.”
Finally she raised her head. “Oh, my God!”
The newsroom receptionist was completely hidden behind the enormous floral arrangement she had carried into Barrie’s cubicle. “Where do you want it?”
“Uh…” As always, the top of her desk was a hazard zone. “The floor, I guess.”
After depositing the arrangement, the receptionist straightened up. “Whoever he is, even if he looks like a toad, to lay out this many bucks for flowers, I say he’s a keeper.”
Barrie had opened the card attached to the bouquet and was smiling. “I’d say so too, but he’s married.”
“All the good ones are.”
Barrie passed the card to the woman, whose eyes bugged when she read the familiar signature following the handwritten message. Her shriek brought several newsroom staffers crowding into the cubicle.
Barrie reclaimed the card and fanned herself with it. “Just a little token of appreciation from the President, extolling my talent and insight, praising me for the excellence of my series, and thanking me for the patriotic service I’ve performed.”
“One more word and I’m gonna puke.” Howie had joined the group.
Barrie laughed and replaced the card in its envelope. It would be something to show her grandchildren. “You’re just jealous because you’re not a personal friend of the Merritts.” Howie and her other co-workers ambled out, a few grousing about the luck of some people.
When she was alone, Barrie placed a telephone call. Speaking softly, she asked, “Are you free tonight?”