2
Don’t be nervous. Don’t be nervous. Don’t be nervous…
“Five seconds.”
The announcement tightened Sara’s stomach. For a fleeting moment she almost started singing again. She forced her mouth to close, adjusted her spectacles, and waited.
I’m going to do fine. I’m going to kick some ass. I’m going to…
“Four, three, two…” The hand pointed toward the two people sitting at the desk.
“Good evening, I’m Donald Parker.”
Please don’t sing… “And I’m Sara Lowell. Welcome to NewsFlash.”
Dr. John Lowell’s estate in the Hamptons was enormous. The Tudor mansion sat majestically atop ten handsomely landscaped acres. There was a grass tennis court as well as indoor and outdoor swimming pools, three Jacuzzis, two hot tubs, a spacious cabana, a helicopter landing pad, and more rooms than Lowell knew what to do with. The house had been his grandfather’s, a capitalist who had, according to liberal textbooks, raped and pillaged the land and its people for profits. John’s father, however, chose to bypass the family business and become a surgeon. John had followed suit. He made a good living, though practicing medicine was not nearly as profitable as raping and pillaging.
In a few hours, the east wing would be packed to capacity with some of the wealthiest people in the world, all of whom had donated thousands to the Erin Lowell Cancer Center for the right to attend. John would have to smile a lot and be solicitous. He hated doing that. During his controversial tenure as surgeon general in the early eighties, John Lowell had never learned much about diplomacy or political subtlety. He crusaded zealously to crush cancer, bulldozing whatever and whomever stood in his way. He declared war on cigarette smokers, claiming in an angry remark on national television, “Cigarettes are murder weapons, plain and simple. I feel no pity for smokers who give themselves lung cancer. They don’t care if they make other people sick with secondhand smoke or even if they give their own children a deadly disease. It boggles the mind how we put up with people who are so selfish and destructive.”
The remark sent shock waves throughout the country. The tobacco industry lobbied to have John Lowell removed from office. They failed, but not from lack of trying. Battle lines had been drawn on that day, and even though John was no longer surgeon general, he continued to fight.
“Hi, Dad.”
John Lowell spun toward his elder daughter, Cassandra. She was wearing a bathrobe and sandals. “Cassandra, where are you going?”
“Just taking a quick dip in the pool,” she replied.
“But your sister is going to be on in a few minutes. All the houseguests are coming inside to watch.”
Cassandra’s eyes clouded over, but John did not appear to notice. “I’ll only be a moment.”
“You should come in with the rest of us and watch Sara.”
Once again he failed to acknowledge the defiant glare in his daughter’s eyes. “You’re going to tape the show, right?” she asked.
“Right.”
“So I’ll be able to watch my sister over and over again. Lucky me.”
“Cassandra…”
She ignored her father and strode away. Sara. For Cassandra’s whole life her younger sister’s name surrounded her like thousands of tiny birds. “Sara is sick.” “We have to take Sara to the hospital.” “Don’t play so rough with Sara.” To her father, Cassandra was never as pretty, never as kind, never as ambitious, never as smart as Sara.
Her mother had been different. Erin Lowell had loved Cassandra just as much as prettier, kinder, more ambitious, more hardworking, smarter Sara. God, how she missed her mom. It had been more than a decade now, but still the pain was fresh, constant, and occasionally all-consuming.
The heat was stifling again today and many of the guests had escaped the humidity with a dip in the pool. Most were beginning to head into the house to watch wonderful Sara’s debut on NewsFlash. But seeing Cassandra striding toward the pool, several of the men froze.
Cassandra was tall and wild-eyed, with wavy dark hair and olive skin. She differed so from Sara that no one would ever suspect that they were sisters. To put it simply, Cassandra was hot. Burning hot. Dangerously hot. Whereas Sara’s eyes could best be described as gentle ponds, Cassandra’s smoldered like coals.
Cassandra arrived at the pool and kicked off her sandals. With a slight smile she slipped her robe down off her shoulders. It fell to the floor, revealing a sleek one-piece bathing suit that struggled to contain her voluptuous curves. She stepped onto the diving board, knowing that all eyes were following her, and sauntered to the front. Then, stretching her arms over her head, Cassandra dove in, the cool water tingling her skin all over. She began to swim the length of the pool, her long torso reaching forward with each stroke, her well-toned legs kicking ever so slightly. Her body sliced through the water effortlessly, leaving barely a ripple.
“It’s almost eight o’clock,” a voice from the house called. “NewsFlash is about to start.”
Once again the women began to move toward the house, but the men could not free themselves so easily from Cassandra’s spell. Oh, they strove to look casual, silently sucking in their paunches or putting shirts over all-too-obvious flaws. They walked by her slowly, trying desperately to sneak one last peek.
Cassandra stepped out of the pool and slowly made her way toward a chaise longue. She did not bother to dry herself. Reaching into the pocket of her robe, she withdrew a pair of sunglasses, put them on, and lay back, crossing her legs. Cassandra appeared to be resting quietly, but behind her sunglasses her eyes were very much on the move.
She spotted chubby Stephen Jenkins, the sixty-two-year-old former senator from Arkansas. Stephen — Uncle Stevie, she and Sara called him — was an old family friend. He and John Lowell had gone to Amherst together, their wives had hosted parties together, their children had gone to summer camp together. It was all very sweet and nice. And — let’s be frank here — having sex with the conservative minority leader of the United States Senate had been something of a challenge for thirty something Cassandra. A sexual thrill, however, it was not.
“Hello, Cassandra,” Jenkins called out.
“Hello, Uncle Stevie.”
Cassandra had considered seducing the senator’s handsome, single son as well, but Bradley was kind of a pain in the ass. And worse, he was Sara’s friend. Every time they saw each other, the two of them gabbed for hours, ignoring Cassandra completely. If Sara and Bradley had been lovers, Cassandra might have considered it. But they weren’t. From the day of her marriage two years ago, Sara was dedicated to Michael to the point of absolute boredom.
Cassandra poured some suntan oil into her cupped hand and began to massage it onto her legs. From across the pool Senator Jenkins watched, his eyes wide and hungry.
“Stephen?” Mrs. Jenkins called. “Bradley?”
The senator looked away regretfully. “One minute, dear.”
“Hurry, everyone! Sara’s on!”
The crowd moved quickly now. In a few minutes everyone was inside, watching the television. Cassandra lay back and closed her eyes. Sara was on national TV. Who gives a rat’s ass?
Sara felt a knot form in her stomach. She knew that the Reverend Ernest Sanders was sitting in the next room, waiting to be interviewed. He was good in an interview — slick as a greased pig. If the Reverend Sanders did not like a question, he dodged it by an old, proven method: he ignored it. He could frustrate and fluster an interviewer with the best of them.