“He didn’t say that.”

  “Oh yes, he did.” Nick glowered even more darkly. “I can’t believe people take that jackass seriously. And I can’t figure out why he’s supporting Rosemary. I guess it’s like they say—politics makes for strange bedfellows.”

  “Or the reverse?”

  It took him a few seconds to understand what she meant. “Good God, no!” he exclaimed indignantly. “At least … I hope to hell not.”

  “Why? She’s a woman, not a two-dimensional campaign poster.”

  “Well, yeah, sure, I guess.…” The idea seemed never to have occurred to him. “But not … Look, Erin, it’s nothing like that. You don’t understand the way these things work in Washington. You can call somebody a Comsymp and a lecherous cretin in public—Laurence has done it—and invite him out for a drink afterward, and he’ll say, sure, why not? It has to be that way. If politicians took insults personally, there’d be bleeding bodies all over Capitol Hill.”

  “I don’t think I’d be so detached,” Erin admitted.

  “I’m not very good at it myself. I hate people who have the goddamn gall to disagree with me!”

  Erin laughed and after a moment Nick’s scowl faded into a sheepish grin. “Which is why I’m an enthusiastic volunteer instead of an up-and-coming political reporter. Ah well, I’m learning; I haven’t slugged Laurence yet, and believe me, that has required considerable self-control. My car’s over there.… Damn. Another parking ticket.”

  “At least they didn’t tow you.”

  “There is that. Wait a minute. The door sticks some.…”

  The door looked as if it were about to fall off. The car was an ancient Dodge whose original green had faded to a dusty indeterminate gray. Nick wrenched the door open, helped Erin in, and, after a prolonged struggle, managed to shut it again.

  The drive was hair-raising, in every sense of the word. The window on Erin’s side wouldn’t close. Nick was apologetic. “The part costs sixty bucks, and that doesn’t include labor. I meant to look for it in a junkyard, but I haven’t had time.… Oh, hey, sorry about that. The catch on the door to the glove compartment doesn’t hold very well.…”

  Perched on a sagging bench in the bleachers, watching the Vikings devastate their hapless opponents from St. Joe’s, Erin realized with some surprise that she was enjoying herself. Her supper had consisted of a country ham sandwich and a Coke; the portly person seated next to her was the father of the Vikings’ quarterback, and whenever he bounded to his feet to cheer a completed pass, the plank seat slapped Erin’s posterior. But the night air was cool and crisp, the ham sandwich was excellent, and the portly person’s enthusiasm was rather touching. Nick kept running back and forth from the seat beside her—to the bench, to the trailer manned by the mothers of the Boosters Club.

  During halftime she joined him on the sidelines, at his request. Among the people to whom he introduced her, with transparent pride, was a sports reporter from a local TV station. “What are you doing out here?” Nick asked. “Thought you’d been promoted to news reporting.”

  “Dave called in sick,” the round-faced youth explained morosely. “You know how it is. Listen, you got any openings for a media man in the campaign?”

  “We haven’t got any openings, period. Here.” Nick reached in his pocket. “Have a button.”

  The youth allowed Nick to pin the campaign button to his shirt. “Keep me in mind, okay?”

  “Yeah, sure, old buddy. Gotta run now; Erin is dying to meet some of the players.”

  “I’m not, you know,” Erin remarked, as he led her away.

  “Never pass up an opportunity to do some work for your candidate,” Nick said. “Some of the players are eighteen and they all have relatives who vote—or should. Smile and look pretty—that won’t be hard—and tell them all how wonderful Rosemary Marshall is.”

  Most of the players were too concerned with the game to listen to Nick’s political lecture. Those who did promised him—leering amiably at Erin all the while—that, sure, they’d vote for Marshall, why the hell not? Only one objected. He was an extremely large eighteen-year-old, who would have made two of Nick. Instead of being intimidated by the bulk looming over him, Nick fell on him like a piranha on a whale. “How can you vote for a man who helped promote Virginia’s massive resistance to integration when he was in the state legislature and who said, as recently as 1984, that he had no regrets about doing it?”

  The large young man was no match for Nick in rhetoric; when it dawned on him that he was losing the argument, he cocked an enormous fist and Erin prudently retreated behind one of the other players, a rangy black youth who had been introduced as the star tight end. He was pleased to see her, but showed no desire to prevent the imminent annihilation of Nick; in fact, he and the other players cheered the debaters on. Erin was relieved when the coach finally intervened with a firm “Knock it off, you guys. We got a game to play. Carson, don’t waste your energy. Get the hell outta here, Nick, what’s the idea of bugging my guys?”

  “They’re ahead twenty-one to zip,” Nick reminded him. “Great job, Coach; how about an interview?”

  “Later, maybe. Get lost.”

  “Right.” Nick seized the ham-sized fist of his antagonist and shook it vigorously. “Great talking to you, bro. That’s what this country is all about, right? Honest disagreement and discussion, the heart of democracy. You just think over what I said—”

  Erin took him firmly by the arm and led him away. They were followed by the jeers and cheers of the players.

  “Why do you do that?” she demanded.

  “Do what?”

  “Argue with people like that boy. His mind, what there is of it, is made up. You’re supposed to go where the ducks are, aren’t you?”

  Nick stopped, and in full view of all the spectators, under the glaring lights, seized her in a fervent embrace. “You’re awfully cute,” he said.

  Up to that point Erin had found his exuberance entertaining. Why the compliment roused such sudden, violent annoyance she could not have said; a few weeks ago she would have accepted it with a modest simper. Instead she jabbed her elbow into Nick’s midsection and snapped, “Don’t patronize me!”

  “I didn’t. I wouldn’t! If you want to tell me I’m the sexiest man you’ve ever met, go right ahead; I won’t take offense.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah. I said you were cute and you are cute, by God. I didn’t say, and didn’t mean, that you were not also intelligent, capable, worthy of respect—”

  “You implied as much. That’s what ‘cute’ means to men like you. Cute and dumb.”

  “Not true.” Infuriatingly Nick’s lips curved into a smile. “Hey, have you been reading Rosemary’s speeches?”

  “I can take offense at rudeness without help from Rosemary.”

  “Sure you can,” Nick said. “But listen, you ought to read the one she gave a couple of years ago when she spoke in support of her day-care bill. I’ll get you a copy. Though it loses something in the mere reading; Rosemary’s a great speaker, and she’s improving all the time. Even television doesn’t capture her quality completely. Tell you what, next time she gives a major speech maybe you’d like …”

  It was difficult to quarrel with a man who blandly ignored your complaints and launched into a lecture. Erin let him escort her to her seat in the bleachers.

  As soon as the second half started he was off again, after presenting her with a piece of apple pie. The pie lived up to his praise, but the paper plate on which it reposed wasn’t very sturdy, and the gyrations of the quarterback’s adoring dad sent trickles of sticky amber juice cascading onto Erin’s skirt. Philosophically licking her fingers, she was seized by a fit of the giggles, as she remembered Fran’s envious comments. “Politics is the most glamorous business in the world. Mixing with the rich and famous—gorgeous clothes, beautiful people, caviar and champagne …”

  Caviar and champagne … Well, there was something to be said for limp chef’s salad and homemade apple pie too. It all depends on the ambience, and the company.

  By the following morning her opinion of Nick had undergone another switch, back to the negative side. He had accepted her invitation to come in for a cup of coffee and had stayed till 2 A.M. arguing politics with Fran. She would like to have believed he had lingered in the hope that Fran would go tactfully to bed and leave them alone, but she had already learned enough about Nick to recognize the hope was delusory. Nick would rather argue than eat, or sleep, or … anything else.

  She could cheerfully have murdered Fran, who had committed the unforgivable sin of being bright-eyed, alert, and witty while she sat like a lump of suet. She couldn’t have gotten a word in even if she had had anything intelligent to contribute; Fran and Nick were a perfect match in loquacity and detailed knowledge of political issues. They agreed on practically everything, including the dazzling wonderfulness of Rosemary Marshall. And after Nick had left—remarking calmly that he still had a story to write—Fran had raved on and on about him. “Talk about your fringe benefits! Of course, if you’re really crazy about the guy I wouldn’t dream of horning in, but after all, you just met him.…”

  The unspoken assumption being that if Fran wanted him, she could get him.

  Erin pushed the stack of mail aside and stood up, avoiding the eagle eye of Mrs. Patterson, the office manager. Patterson was a soured virgin of ninety-seven (Nick’s description) who clearly believed Erin was badly hung over after a night of sinful dissipation. To hell with Patterson; she needed coffee.

  The coffee urn and accompanying amenities—which included a soft-drink machine and an unpredictable selection of doughnuts and pastries—were concealed behind a screen at the back of the room. Erin filled a cup and stood by the table as she sipped; she was in no hurry to return to her desk where she would be overlooked by Mrs. Patterson’s critical eye. All at once she heard her own name, uttered in tones that rose distinctly over the usual background noises.

  “Erin! Where the hell has she gotten to?”

  Erin made haste to present herself. There was no mistaking Joe’s bass roar.

  “I was just getting a cup of coffee,” she began.

  Joe slung his coat jacket over one shoulder and wrenched at his tie. His face looked as if he had shaved in the dark or a thick fog; patches of unattended bristles marked his jutting chin. “Bring it to my office, I want to talk to you. Get me a cup too. Cream and sugar.” Without waiting for an answer he swung on his heel and stamped toward his office.

  Erin’s hands were unsteady as she filled the cup according to his specifications. The milk looked a little peculiar; she hoped it hadn’t gone sour, Joe was obviously in a foul mood already. Had she done something to anger him, or committed some ghastly blunder with the mail? In spite of Joe’s kindness to her she was a little afraid of him; she had seen him reduce one of the typists to tears for committing a minor error.

  The office door stood open. Joe was speaking on the phone, and Jeff stood by the desk. Joe gestured to Erin to close the door; while she was trying to work out the logistics of obeying his order while holding a Styrofoam cup in either hand, Jeff came to her assistance. She thanked him, and murmured an apology. “I didn’t know you were here. Would you like some coffee?”

  “No, thanks. Haven’t you heard that fetching coffee for the boss is a feminist issue?”

  The edge in his voice surprised Erin and increased her nervousness. She racked her brain trying to remember whether she had said something to Nick that might have sounded critical of Rosemary, the issues, the world in general.…

  Joe slammed the telephone into the cradle. “We’re transferring you to home base,” he said. “Kay managed to mash her hand last night—the right hand, of course—she can’t type, or tie Rosie’s hair ribbons, or whatever the hell else she does. Better get out there as fast as you can; Kay’s in one of her states.”

  Erin felt as if the hinges on her jaw had given way. “I don’t understand,” she gasped.

  “What don’t you understand? English?”

  “You mean … Do you want me to go to Middleburg?”

  “For Christ’s sake!” Joe bellowed.

  “Cool it, Joe.” Jeff smiled encouragingly at Erin. “Give her a chance to assimilate it.”

  “So what’s to assimilate? Most people would consider this the biggest break of their lives.”

  “No doubt she is speechless with joy,” Jeff said sarcastically. “People like to be asked, Joe. Asked, not told.”

  The expression on Joe’s face as he considered this astonishing idea was almost comical. “That’s not it,” Erin said quickly. “Of course I’ll go. I just wondered why—”

  “I told you, Kay’s crippled herself. Caught her hand in the car door, for God’s sake. Broke a couple of fingers, Do you want to go, or don’t you?”

  “Of course. I’ll leave right away. Should I tell Mrs. Patterson, or—”

  She stopped; Joe’s face was crimson, and he looked as if he were about to explode with exasperation. Initiative, Erin told herself; display a little initiative, woman. When a man like Joe gave an order, he expected the orderee to work out the details. Such as how she was going to get to Middleburg without a car.

  “Yes, sir,” she snapped. “Right away, sir.”

  She didn’t hear Jeff follow; he walked like a leopard. But his hand reached the knob before hers, and after he had ushered her out he said in a low voice, “Don’t mind Joe, he’s in a bad mood. Things are a little tense all around.”

  “He talks as if the poor woman broke her hand on purpose,” Erin muttered.

  “Things are a little tense,” Jeff repeated. “I’ll explain to Mrs. Patterson. You’d better go home first and pack a bag in case they want you to stay overnight.”

  “Thanks,” Erin said gratefully. His quiet, calm manner was as helpful as the practical suggestions Joe hadn’t bothered to offer. “Is there … I suppose there’s a bus?”

  “To Middleburg?” His elegantly shaped eyebrows shot up. “Oh, that’s right, I remember you said you didn’t own a car. No problem. I’ll drive you. I have to go out there anyway. Why don’t you go home and pack, and I’ll pick you up in … say an hour and a half?”

  The office was in Falls Church, only twenty minutes away from the apartment, but by the time she had waited for the bus and walked the distance on either end, she had very little time to spare. She made it, just barely, running breathlessly out the door only seconds before Jeff arrived. He acknowledged her promptness with an approving smile, and got out to take her overnight bag and stow it in the backseat. The contrast between his immaculately tended though modest Camaro, and the wreck Nick drove was ludicrous. The backseat of Nick’s car looked like a traveling office, heaped with boxes of campaign literature, newspapers, and miscellaneous debris. Jeff’s contained only his briefcase. Even the car keys reflected the personality of their owners. Nick’s chain held over a dozen keys, held together by twists of plastic ties; Jeff’s key ring was a polished curve of heavy silver in the form of a stylized fish.

  “That’s good-looking,” Erin said, indicating the ornament.

  “Thanks.” Jeff wasn’t the man to waste time on meaningless courtesies, especially when, as seemed apparent from his frowning look, he was preoccupied with more important matters. Erin waited until the lines on his forehead had smoothed out before she ventured to speak again.

  “Can I ask a question?”

  “Sure. Sorry if I sounded a little brusque. I was thinking about a sentence in a speech I’m working on for Rosemary.”

  “I thought Nick was the official speechwriter.”

  “There is no official speechwriter,” Jeff snapped. He gave her a rueful sidelong smile. “There I go again. Sometimes the way this campaign is being run gets to me. We all have official titles, but they don’t mean anything, except in Joe’s case—and a campaign manager is supposed to be a jack-of-all-trades, in charge of everything. Not that political campaigns are ever models of organization; I’ve heard the process described as lurching from one crisis to the next. But this one …”

  He shook his head. “As for the speechwriting, we all take a shot at it. Rosemary reworks ever word herself, but she’s very good about listening to other ideas. So feel free, if the urge strikes you, to become the next Schlesinger.”

  “I wouldn’t dare.”

  “Why not? Erlichman began as a baggage handler for Nixon’s 1960 campaign—though that may not be a career you’d care to emulate. And I know of one political writer who was writing speeches for Robert Kennedy two days after he began work as a junior-grade assistant. But you wanted to ask me something. What was it?”

  “You’ve already answered it,” Erin said. “I was going to ask whether things were always this frantic.”

  Jeff seemed quite at ease, now that he had let off a little steam. “Actually, they get worse,” he said, smiling. “The closer we get to election day, the more frantic the pace. A lot of people who go into that voting booth make up their minds, or change them, at the last minute. The polls are increasingly accurate in predicting the outcome—some would say they affect the outcome—but there are always the famous exceptions. Something can happen at the last minute to change the whole picture.”

  “Like Rosemary’s secretary breaking her hand?”

  “Oh, that. A minor contretemps. Kay doesn’t like to admit it, but she can be replaced.”

  “But why by me?”

  “That’s the question I thought you were going to ask,” Jeff said. He was silent for a moment. It was not a pause of uncertainty, but of someone coolly considering all the pros and cons before issuing a statement. Then he said, “I don’t ordinarily gossip about people, but you’re being tossed into the thick of this situation, so you have a right to know some of the problems you’ll be facing. Kay is Rosemary’s secretary. Period. She’s had the job for years, and by all accounts she has handled it well. Lately, though, she’s aspired to giddier heights—aide, executive assistant. And that job she cannot handle.”