“As you have probably heard on news broadcasts throughout the day, I have been sworn in as president, until such time that President Lamden is well enough to return. His doctors tell me they are hopeful, but it will take time.
“Commentators are wondering, as you must be, whether my service will precipitate a change in policy. Circumstances make that an obvious question. While it is true President Lamden and I are from different political parties, we represent the American people. He asked me to join his administration in the spirit of unity. I now sit in his seat, promising you that unity, not politics, will be the mark of my leadership.”
Taylor had struggled over the words in his speech. He wanted to convey the feeling that there would not be a fundamental change in the direction of the executive branch, while also stating that he planned on governing.
“We have much to accomplish. And yes, I will consult with President Lamden and turn to him for advice and counsel when his doctors allow. When he has recovered, I will step aside and welcome our president back to the Oval Office.”
Minutes before his speech, specialists at Walter Reed told Taylor that might never happen.
“I insist. You go. I’ll make some calls. Check my e-mail. Slip into one of your dresses.”
“Oh, stop that,” Katie said.
“Okay, okay. I just want to know where all the zippers and buttons are,” Roarke answered.
“I’ll be happy to point out each and every one, but I think I can honestly say that’s not a problem for you, Mr. Roarke. I’ve seen what you can do in the dark.” They both laughed. “Come on,” she continued. “You won’t have to do a thing except duck under the jib. I’ll be gentle.”
“Thanks, but no thanks. I’m a landlubber.”
“Please.”
Roarke laughed. “You’re pouting.”
“No, I’m not.”
She was.
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
“You are, and it’s okay. I haven’t seen that before. It’s a good look for you.”
Katie frowned. “It is?”
“Yes. And I know why.” He reached across the breakfast table, pushing aside the coffee cups and maneuvering around the spinach omelet Katie prepared. “You came back to bed this morning because you don’t want us to be apart.”
“I didn’t do any such…”
“Shhush.”
She stopped. No one has ever known me like you do, she acknowledged by squeezing his hand.
“You did, and I’m very glad. But if you think I’m pushing you away now, I’m not.” Roarke gently squeezed her hand, communicating the same love. “So, go sail. If I finish quickly, I’ll come down to watch.”
“Promise?” she said softly.
“I promise.” Roarke rose. “Come here, you.”
She stepped forward, and Roarke pulled Katie into her arms.
She loved the feeling of his arms around her body. He could hold her so tightly, yet his touch always seemed tender. He was certainly more fit than anyone she’d ever known, but he had a softness that made sleeping in his arms absolutely wonderful. And while she had no doubt he had killed, his eyes were warm and inviting. Scott Roarke was full of these kinds of contradictions. Katie believed no one else had ever gotten so close to him. As far as she was concerned, no one else ever would.
They locked in a long, engulfing kiss until Katie reluctantly pulled back.
“You win,” she said, trying to catch her breath. “I’m outta here. Besides, I think I could use the fresh air.”
“Good. Now go.”
Katie pulled the few things she needed together, tucked a Red Sox T-shirt into her tan shorts, tied her sneakers, and straightened up.
Roarke thought she looked just great. It was getting harder to be without her.
“Later,” Katie said. She went to the only door of her Beacon Hill apartment and unbolted the lock. The sound only served to remind Roarke that he wished there was a back door. He always wanted to know there was another way out of every place. The thought blocked her goodbye from sinking in, but as she closed the door, Roarke did hear Katie add, “And leave my dresses alone!”
The wind was perfect. It blew across the Charles River at 11 knots, filling the 55 square feet of Katie’s Vanguard Laser sail. The Community Boating program had a fleet of some seventy boats, any of which where available to Katie for only $175 a season. Her rented 130-pound craft reached 0′1″ into the midday sky. She preferred the speedy single-skipper Laser rather then one of the family-sized Rhodes 19s, Cape Cod Mercury sloops, or 14-footer 420s. Anyone, no matter the age, had access to the same craft throughout the season, providing they passed the appropriate tests.
She took to the Charles from the first of April through the end of October. Katie’s friends knew that this was her time. That’s why Roarke insisted that she go sailing. Colleagues at the office also recognized that even if she was swamped with work on Saturdays, only bitter cold or stormy weather would keep her from getting out on the water.
Katie was a good sailor, with no greater aspirations than just to have fun. She wished that Scott would share this passion with her. While the boat skipped over the Charles, banking before the Longfellow Bridge near Boston’s Museum of Science, she imagined how incredible he’d look in his T-shirt, with the wind blowing through his hair. The very thought aroused her. But she’d have to live with the fantasy. Roarke was adamant. She could have the water.
The Charles was relatively clean these days, thanks to the successful efforts of the Charles River Watershed Association. No longer was it the river described in the old rock song, “Dirty Water.” Beginning in 1965, the year before the Standells’ song reached Number 11 on the charts, the organization began to monitor pollution and push for improvements. Swimming was still prohibited by the Metropolitan District Commission.
Accordingly, it would be unusual to see anyone take a plunge into the Charles River basin between Boston and Cambridge. However, a man in a wet suit and scuba tank with an MDC lanyard strung around his neck was another thing. The diver looked official. Nobody took any notice as he slipped below the surface.
Roarke left Katie’s apartment. He wanted to use his own phone — definitely not hers. He placed the call to Army Captain Penny Walker’s direct line. Come on, Penny, he said to himself. She’d left an encouraging, though cryptic message on his cell phone: “Scott, got some things to go over with you about your boy. Get back to me.”
He’d missed her call when he was in the shower with Katie. Although they couldn’t get into specifics now, Roarke was eager to hear the headlines.
“Walker,” she said, picking up on the third ring.
“Captain, you rang my chimes?”
She recognized his voice. “That was years ago,” she responded in a far sweeter voice.
“Ah, yes. Anything?” he said, getting right to the point of the call.
“Affirmative. Where are you?”
“Boston.”
“Of course, what was I thinking?”
“Only of work, Captain Walker, which is why you called.”
“Well, here’s the latest. Assuming for the moment, perhaps incorrectly, that your very adept Mr. Depp is an American, and his very special training was done at taxpayers’ expense, I’ve focused on former Rangers, Seals, and Green Berets and not the happily married, retired types — only the ones who would have more likely gone into mercenary work or fallen off the radar altogether.”